Weaver
by sbgrrl
Summary: Sometimes dreams teach, sometimes they tell the future and sometimes they just hurt like hell. It's gen because I adore the brother dynamic, and set immediately after S1's Nightmare.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: I posted this in its entirety earlier, only to discover 1) that's not how things are done around here ;) and 2) the formatting I had in place to differentiate between sections and POVs didn't work. All apologies to anyone who attempted to read that jumbled mess!_

_Also, I don't know if I have the stamina to upload all the parts tonight, so I'm listing it as in progress for now, even though it's done. :)_

_Cheers, sbgrrl_

**Weaver**

Dean was being a total pain in the ass. Sam understood that it was a mechanism, a means to alleviate stress, but that didn't make the remarks any less annoying. His head swirled with fear and dread despite Dean's attempt to prove everything was just fine by joking constantly and tormenting the shit out of him. Dean was a terrible actor. Things were not fine, and no amount of teasing from his brother was going to make Sam feel any better about his potentially huge, definitely frightening abilities.

The analogy of spoon bending had only made him feel worse, for the lack of control was what scared him the most about his mental…powers. As far as he was concerned, about the only thing he knew about his ability to move things with his mind was that it happened when he was experiencing a spasm of enraged fear. That wasn't exactly comforting. The chances of being in a similar situation were pretty good, considering what they did for a living. Sam didn't want anyone getting hurt (Dean, his mind screamed.) because he couldn't control what might blow up or fly across the room.

"Sam, what's going to happen if I turn left up here?" Sam clenched his jaw twice and glared over at Dean's smirking face. Jerk loved this way too much; Sam could only hope he'd get tired of it soon. "C'mon, use your divining powers and predict it."

Sam still couldn't believe they were actually heading for Vegas. He thought that, too, had been a joke, but Dean said he figured they had to go some direction, so why not head for money? Just in case Sam miraculously managed to gain control of whatever the hell was up with him in time to hit a poker game or two and win big. Right. Regular joes didn't just show up for the high stakes games of poker in the biggest gambling city in the world. Sam suspected Dean actually wanted to go there for the showgirls. T&A, 24/7.

"I dunno, Dean, we'll be heading west?"

"Wow, you do have some amazing new skills."

"Shut up."

"And witty comebacks, too."

Sam glared at Dean for another ten-count and then closed his eyes. The best way to deal with Dean when he was being this big a jerk was to try to ignore him. Unfortunately, that left him alone with his thoughts, which invariably turned grim. His head kept swirling with all that had happened in the past couple of days, and with unshakeable guilt about Max's fate. Dean was right. He wasn't Max, and he hoped to hell having a brother like Dean around was enough to prevent that madness and desperation from happening to him. As messed up as their upbringing had been, at least there had been love. It wasn't always obvious and it was usually tempered with anger and antagonism, but Sam knew his father loved them, even if he didn't always show it.

He sighed. Something about the sound of the car's engine combined with rubber spinning on pavement always made him tired, but he was reluctant to sleep. He shifted a little and leaned his right temple against the cool glass of the window, opening his eyes a crack. The night sky seemed thick with darkness, brightened only by a muted orange glow of a small town off in the distance. Dean turned the music down a notch or two, a mild act of consideration Sam wasn't going to take for granted.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty, do you want to stop at a hotel or something?" Dean said. "Get some real sleep?"

Sam lifted his head and looked over. Dean never moved his gaze from the road, and for a flash Sam thought it was probably because his brother couldn't stand the thought of looking at him in all his freakish glory. Ridiculous, since Dean had been smirking at him about it every chance he got for the last six hours. Sam shook his head slightly.

"Dean, we're in the middle of nowhere."

"Well, I meant when we hit a town or something."

"No," Sam said. "Not unless you're tired."

"Nah, could drive all night. But I swear if you complain about a crick in your neck I'm going to hurt you."

He put his head back against the window. A thin trail of cold air tickled at his face, coming from where the rubber had slightly eroded and hardened like always happened with cars this old. Sam didn't mind. He hoped, actually, that it would keep him just awake enough for him to keep from subconsciously calling Max back into his head. Not Max literally, but what he represented. It was so much worse to envision himself like that. It was _in_ him, and that was a fact no amount of fighting could change, no matter how strong Dean thought his influence was.

The rhythm of Dean drumming his fingers against the steering wheel joined the growl of the engine and susurration of tires on the road. Sam smiled to himself in spite of his lingering unease. Maybe he should stop worrying so much about it and enjoy the showgirls as much as Dean was going to. Sam let himself drift toward sleep with images of beautiful women with beautiful long legs dancing before him. It was nice and warm and if sleep could always be like it, he'd never get up.

_And then he was alone, running, running faster than he ever had before and all Sam could see was blackness. Direction didn't matter. He didn't know where he was or where he was going, he just knew he had to keep going before it found him. He heard it, always right on his heels, its breath hot and moist against his chilled skin. He'd been running forever, and he couldn't tell if his muscles were quivering from cold or fatigue. Suddenly, there was brightness amid the black. A gorgeous woman appeared before him, her skin so pale and translucent in contrast to the black that she appeared to glow. Her eyes were too huge and dark for her face and she cried out to him but her lips didn't move. 'Help, someone help me.' Sam couldn't feel or hear the thing behind him anymore, and he kept running for the woman, focused solely on her terrified eyes, which were now so big he could see the reflection of himself running toward her in them. The blackness was behind her now, and he could see it edging closer._

_"Move," he shouted._

_She blinked and shook her head at him. She wore silver and glitter and a huge headdress, showgirl, and the feathers swayed like they were alive. Tentacles that reached out for him. Sam skidded to a halt, wildly looking left and right for escape, for Dean, for something. There was only darkness, it and her. He looked at her again, and frowned. She smiled coyly, not a trace of fear showing on her serene, familiar face. This wasn't right._

_"Jess?" Sam whispered, and her smile grew to reveal sharp, yellow teeth. This wasn't how his dreams of Jess went. "No."_

_"Help me, help me," she said mockingly, and laughed at him. Her lips moved now. Her eyes, besides being too large, weren't the right color. They were black as oil and he realized suddenly why the thing that chased him didn't scare her. "Woe is little old me."_

_Sam took a step back, into impossible empty space that had been ground only seconds ago. He fell. The black-eyed beast morphed out of Jess' shape and into Max. It peered at him over a ledge, a decapitated head floating in the dark. Sam stopped falling with a jerk, suspended in mid-air by absolutely nothing. By Max. Fear choked him, filled his throat so he couldn't breathe or cry out._

_"See what I can do?" Max said casually, his eyes boring into Sam. He wanted to look away, but couldn't. Max held him in place, and even at a distance Sam recognized arrogant sureness in his eyes. They were no longer the scared, desperate eyes Max had when he was alive. These were cold and possessed with real evil. "You can do it, too. You're going to be just like me, Sam."_

_No, Sam thought, nonono I'm not. He managed to shake his head. Max's nostrils flared for a moment, like a bull enraged by a waving red flag. He started falling again, flipping over and over until he finally stopped on a headfirst descent. Max stood below him now, arms open as if waiting for an embrace. Sam closed his eyes._

_"Sam, Sam, Sam." Max's voice was taunting and cruel and much harder than Sam remembered it. "You can't fight it, Sam."_

_Max was right. Sam shook all over; couldn't stop. He wasn't in control of his own body._

"Sam!" Everything shook, every muscle vibrated in involuntary contractions and he wondered if Max could somehow manipulate people as well as objects. "Sammy, wake up and breathe, damnit."

Dean. Sam opened his eyes and saw the Impala's sleek dashboard. He gulped for air, automatically jerking forward so his head was almost between his knees. He felt Dean's hand on his shoulder now, squeezing tightly. He looked over and, through the black starbursts obscuring his vision as oxygen returned to his bloodstream, saw Dean's face was the picture of abject terror. It only lasted a second, vanishing so quickly Sam wasn't sure it had even existed. Dean was left looking calm, cool and collected, which seemed like just what Sam needed.

"What happened?" Sam said, still gasping.

"I think you were dreaming," Dean told him.

"Yeah, I knew that." Sam thought he'd finally regained control of his lungs again. He stared at Dean. "I meant what else."

"You wouldn't wake up."

Which explained Dean's apparently active participation in the task. Sam had a brief, paranoid thought about the myth of falling dreams and what actually happened to people who hit the ground in them. It wasn't something anyone could substantiate. Sam closed his eyes, and was treated to an image of Max standing as he had in the dream. Sam shook his head, wrinkling his nose a little as he opened his eyes again. Something didn't really make sense to him. Lots of things, actually.

"You don't usually try to wake me."

"You don't usually stop breathing, Sammy. You usually jerk yourself awake."

Sam didn't miss the faint annoyance that crept into Dean's tone, symptomatic of extreme fear rather than anger, he knew. As always, he chose to not acknowledge it. Dean seemed to need the illusion that he was unaffected most of the time. Wait.

"I stopped breathing," he said. That was new. "For how long?"

"A minute. Probably less. Seemed like more." Dean gave him a funny look. "It doesn't matter how long, just that you did. What the hell were you dreaming about?"

In other words, was it one of those kinds of dreams? Emphasis on 'those' to make it sound like a dirty word. Sam figured his brother was as freaked out about this stuff as he was, but damnit if it didn't hurt just the same. A little or big part of Dean probably now put Sam into the 'freaky things we usually fight and kill' box. Dean had been prepared to kill Max, who was as human as the next guy. That was as disturbing to him as the powers themselves. He didn't know how much detail he should go into about the dream, and didn't really want to talk about it.

"I can't remember much. I think I was falling."

"You stopped breathing because you were falling," Dean said with a quizzical, disbelieving quirk of his eyebrows. "In your dream."

"I guess," Sam said. He looked away.

Dean _didn't_ believe him, but he started the car and pulled back onto the road. Oh. It _had_ scared Dean, Sam thought, enough to pull the car to the side and turn it off entirely. He looked out the window into darkness again. Any hope of getting rest was gone. He remembered Dean telling him the guilt-fueled dreams of Jess would kill him if he didn't find a way to deal. Sam felt the draft of air from the window, and this time it only left him chilled.


	2. Chapter 2

_Weaver, Chapter 2_

Dean stared at the face of the phone, his dad's highlighted number staring back up at him. All he had to do was press one button and he'd be able to release his pent-up concern…to voicemail yet again. He clicked the cell shut. He had no idea what kind of message he'd leave for their father anyway. He didn't exactly have a clue what was going on with Sam any more than Sam seemed to.

_"Hi, Dad, it's me. I think Sam might be going nuts. Just thought you should know. Call me sometime."_

Right. That would really get their dad moving as fast as he had at Lawrence, or when Dean was dying. And there was the slight problem that Dean didn't actually think Sam was nuts. He didn't know _what_ Sam was if not nuts, and that was so much worse. He got up and stalked to the bathroom door. He pounded on it twice.

"Hey, I'm going to hit the tables for a while. You okay here?"

This hole in the wall hotel – as tempting as it was, they couldn't risk getting busted for credit card fraud by staying at a nice place – had really good water pressure. He heard the sound of water slapping against porcelain change slightly, probably with Sam's movements. Dean glanced at his watch and wondered just how long Sam planned on staying in there. It wasn't _that_ nice. Half an hour was pushing it a bit far, like Sam didn't think he could get clean.

"I'm not five, Dean," Sam bellowed. "Just don't lose all our money."

"Our money? Dude, I'm the one who earns the cash around here," Dean said. Sam sounded normal, at least. "You couldn't hustle pool if your life depended on it."

It was true. The more illegal aspects of their life fell heavily on his shoulders, which was annoying at times. Sam usually made up for it by using his greatest strengths when they were on a case – his geeky tolerance and enjoyment of research and the damned sincerity of puppy dog eyes. The simple truth was if Dean had to break the law so Sam wouldn't have to, he'd keep doing it. He'd keep making sure all the credit card applications and insurance forms couldn't be tied to Sam in any way. The fake IDs were a different story, but that was out of his hands.

"Hey!"

"You know it's true."

"Whatever, dude."

Dean rolled his eyes and then rolled for the door. They wouldn't stay here long. Vegas was just a quick pit stop he intended to make the most of, with or without Sam's mental mojo. The very thought of that made him pause with his hand on the door. Maybe it wasn't the best idea to leave Sam alone right now. It was the middle of the day, but Sam could still doze off or something and do that…apnea thing. Sam insisted it was probably just a one-time occurrence. Dean had his doubts. He didn't really know what he was going to do about it; eventually both of them would sleep at the same time, and he couldn't keep his eye on Sam forever. He turned the door handle and stepped out into the bright light.

He told himself he wouldn't play more than a couple hands. Dean glanced up and down the dirty street. Actually, they were so far off the strip that a few hands weren't worth the travel time. He looked at the closed door behind him and decided a few slot pulls at the 7-Eleven and a chilidog would be enough for now. Maybe he'd get to play some blackjack later, when Sam was out of the shower, which had better be by the time he got back. He didn't think he could keep it together if Sam wanted to keep talking about whatever was going on with his brother's wacky brain. The less they mentioned it the better as far as he was concerned. He rubbed clammy hands down the front of his jeans. It would help if _he_ stopped thinking about it all the damn time.

Fuck 7-Eleven. This was Vegas and for once he was going to allow himself two days to be normal. Two lousy days free of supernatural shit and full of gambling, alcohol and women – all things Sam should really get in on. Dean turned around and went back into the room, intent on getting Sam on board and out of his funk. That overactive brain of his brother's made him nervous. He never should have even considered leaving Sam alone to just think. So help him, Sam was going to shut his brain down for a couple days.

"Hey, Sam," Dean shouted, pounding on the bathroom door again. "Change of plans. You're coming with me if I have to drag your ass out of the shower."

"Dean…" Damn, Sam didn't sound normal anymore, he sounded beat down.

"Get out of the damn shower, get dressed, we're going to have at least one memorable night in Vegas, Sam."

"Gambling's not really my thing, you know that."

"Then we'll go see some showgirls. Scantily clothed, long-legged showgirls. C'mon, man."

There was a soft thud and skitter as something fell to the tub basin, and water pounded down unimpeded by a body in its path. Sam didn't answer him. Sam didn't make any noise at all. Dean pounded on the door again, alarmed by the silence.

"Sam?"

At least he hadn't heard the sound of his brother collapsing on the floor. No, that was no comfort. Dean slammed his fist against wood, hoping like hell he wasn't going to have to kick in the door, but every second of silence made him feel more apprehensive. The tub faucet squeaked loudly, and the water shut off at last. He heard the shower curtain draw back. He relaxed a little. Whatever was going on, it must all be in his head. Sam was fine. Dean clenched his jaw.

"Sam, talk to me. What's going on with you?"

The door opened, steam rolling out. Dean backed up a few steps and slouched down on his bed. Sam didn't come out. Every passing second was like torture for him. Damnit, he knew the long shower wasn't a good sign. He was glad he came back in.

"Nothing," Sam said, quietly. "Nothing's going on. You want to gamble, fine. Give me a few minutes."

The fuck it was nothing, Dean thought. He let out a sigh. He really hoped playing blackjack or roulette was going to be enough of a distraction for Sam, and for himself. Something freaky was going on with his brother, more than just both of them thinking too much about something that could be a fluke. He felt like a jackass for thinking it, but Sam wasn't normal. He wasn't Max, but he wasn't normal and never had been.

"Yeah," Dean said with conviction he didn't feel. If they won anything, that was it. Time to hit the road again. He was sure Sam wouldn't object. "We finally get to have a little fun. Can we stay out past ten, grandma?"

"Shut up," Sam snapped as he stepped from the bathroom in a towel. "Believe it or not, I do know how to have fun sometimes."

"Prove it."

Sam glared at him for a second, then rooted through his bag, snatched some clothes and retreated back into the bathroom. Dean frowned. He should be relieved at his brother's snarking, but Sam had spent the better part of an hour in a hot shower, yet his face was drawn and ashen, his shoulders tight. Shit.

"I'm serious, Sammy. If you don't think I am, ask yourself when you think the last time I took a day off was. We need a break, but it ain't going to last. We have to make the most of it."

"You're right," Sam said, reemerging dressed and ready to go. Dean thought he really needed to cure his little brother of striped, button down shirts. "I'm up for anything. What happens in Vegas…"

Liar. Sam was a big fat liar. The hollowness that usually occupied Sam's eyes (which Dean figured Sam didn't realize was so obvious) was now more like a giant canyon. All dark and not even a spark of light. Dean knew he couldn't press Sam about it, but he could keep a careful eye on the guy. Something told him he himself would be the grandma tonight. It was harder to avoid other distractions in public and his gut told him he couldn't afford to slip up by letting his attention wander.

"Be careful what you wish for," Dean said, giving Sam an evil grin.

There was the problem. If he didn't act normal himself, Sam would know he knew things weren't actually normal. It was a delicate balance and even though he and Sam had traveled together 24/7, Dean still hadn't figured his brother out. He didn't think he ever would.

"I draw the line at strip clubs."

"Sam, your respect for women is a major character flaw."

"It's a problem that I don't treat them like objects," Sam said, flashing an exasperated smile. "You're unbelievable."

"Unbelievably skilled with the ladies."

"I so don't want to hear details of your exploits."

Yet another reason he wished his brother was normal. Dean had no one to turn to when he wanted to admire the female form and damn if they hadn't run into several fine specimens during their travels. Now Dean found himself more excited to see all the hot women Vegas was famous for than he was to earn a couple extra hundred in cash. He could totally handle the distraction, he told himself, all the while imagining half naked women. It was not a problem.

"Fine, but the offer for tips and advice is always open."

Sam sighed.

"This kind of thing is in an older brother's job description," Dean continued.

"Whatever. What're we just sitting here for? Let's go."

Sam said it like they were going to their executions, not out for a night in Las Vegas. _Vegas_. If he got a couple beers in Sam and he'd be fine and maybe that would help him get some sleep too. Sam hadn't even tried since the…apnea thing. Dean really needed to think of a different name for that incident. Or not, he told himself, because it was no big deal and he wasn't supposed to be thinking about it anymore. Sam couldn't bend spoons and just because one dream made him momentarily stop breathing didn't mean it would happen again. It was just stress. That was all.

"Where to first?" Dean asked. He jangled the keys.

"You're the driver," Sam said, weariness in his voice so heavy it made Dean tired. The lack of enthusiasm normally would have just irritated him, but now it was cause for more concern. "You pick."

"Look, dude, if you're not up for this, we can wait until tomorrow."

"Of course I'm up for it. What're you talking about?"

"You look tired, that's all. Thought maybe you could use the sleep."

Sam flinched and looked away, then shook his head and straightened his shoulders. For a second, Dean saw resolve set his brother's jaw and figured out they were both doing the same thing – trying like hell to be normal when nothing ever had been that way for them their whole lives. If nothing else connected them, that would. But Sam had always wanted that kind of normal more.

"I'm not tired," Sam said.

Dean let the lie slide.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Dang it, I forgot to put in a disclaimer. One day I will get this all right on the first shot._

_Disclaimer: The Impala, Sam Winchester and (oh, this one hurts) Dean Winchester and various other characters don't belong to me. Some of the things referenced in the story also don't belong to me, but then some of them do. All these things, sans my own words, belong to Kripke Enterprises (Scrap Metal & Entertainment) and The CW. Not trying to step on toes or claim ownership, much as I would really enjoy that._

_Weaver, Chapter 3_

Sam appreciated Dean's efforts even if it didn't show, and he knew it didn't show much at all. He stared down at his drink not because he respected women too much to overtly ogle them the way Dean did but because every single one of the beautiful women…and the beautiful men who looked like women, he thought…made him cold and dark inside, like his dreams left him. They looked just like the girl in his dream before she morphed into Jess, and then Max, and that terrified him.

Sam also appreciated that Dean was putting on as much of an act as the women were. The guy had only played a couple hands of blackjack, hit one slot machine and one roulette wheel before claiming that poker and pool at a regular bar were more his style. That was probably true, and if he hadn't caught Dean shooting him worried and/or paranoid glances several times Sam might have bought into that excuse. If he had any idea why he was still freaked out about this one dream – it wasn't the worst he'd ever had, especially lately, he'd be annoyed by his brother's behavior. He knew Dean perceived it as bad, too, because it went against everything for him to be faking interest in the beautiful women before them, and Dean definitely was doing that.

"You know, this really isn't my thing either," Dean said. "Too...flamboyant. You sure you don't want to hit a strip club with me?"

"I'm sure." Sam shook his head at Dean's real look of disappointment, and that actually made him feel a little bit better. "You can drop me off and go by yourself if you really want to do that."

"Dude, you have got to lighten up a little. I know I tell you that all the time, but shit – you need to find an outlet for all that chick flick angst of yours."

"I'm not like you. I can't just switch it on and off."

Dean muttered something under his breath and turned to stare sullenly at the elaborate show that continued on stage. Sam almost followed his gaze, but caught himself in time. One brief glimpse as they'd walked in had left him nervous. He stared at the condensation on the drink Dean's winnings had paid for. He shook his head. His brother was actually a pretty lucky person, at least on one level. All the while claiming he wasn't into blackjack, he kept winning. They had enough to pay for a couple hotel rooms the honest way for a change, and still have enough for food and coffee.

"You should try harder," Dean said, gaze still locked on the stage.

"Look, Dean, I'm tired. I don't really want to talk about this. I just want to get back to the room and rest a little. You can go stare at naked women by yourself."

In truth, Sam wanted to get back on the road, to get back to…normal. God, did he really consider his life normal now? No, it was just that jobs gave him something to focus on, something besides Jess and Dad and the demon. He looked up and caught Dean doing the paranoid glance thing. He realized he'd just admitted his tiredness when he'd denied it before. He didn't think that's what made Dean keep staring almost at him.

"I'm that obvious?"

Dean looked embarrassed for a second before he regained a completely expressionless face. Expression wasn't necessary; Sam saw the concern in the eyes.

"You've been looking at me like I'm going to stop breathing while I'm sitting here," Sam said.

"Oh."

"It must have been residual effects from Max's influence." Sam didn't buy that theory himself, not really. "His skills were a lot more powerful than mine."

"Skills."

He rolled his eyes and looked away. Sam caught a glimpse of the showgirls leaving the stage. Their headdresses were exactly like those in his latest dream. He closed his eyes before one of them had the chance to look like Jess. Dean smacked him on the shoulder. Sam opened his eyes and slid away from the table. They wouldn't do any more of the non-talk about the non-breathing thing, or his…skills. He followed Dean out of the theater and remained mute while the valet collected the car and shot the shit with Dean about the Impala. He really was damned exhausted and couldn't avoid sleep forever. He'd already tried that once. As soon as he slid into the passenger seat, he slouched and rested his head on the back of the seat. His knees dug into the dash.

"I'm going to hit the In-N-Out I saw on the way," Dean said. "You hungry?"

"Not really."

"Good, then you can watch the car while I go in."

Dean fairly pealed out of the parking lot, showing off how sweet the car was. Sam smiled to himself. Some things about Dean would never alter, and the whole car machismo thing was one of them. Inherited from their dad, Sam thought, and yet another thing that made him so different from them. He was more concerned about fuel efficiency in his cars than looks. Sam watched the bright lights of Vegas streak by and felt as disconnected as ever. He didn't even notice when the car stopped and the engine noise cut out.

"I'll be back," Dean announced. Sam nodded, then his stomach growled.

"Hey, Dean? I changed my mind. Pick me up a burger too," he said. He hadn't felt like eating much for the past twenty-four hours. "With extra pickles."

"You got it."

Sam pretended he didn't see or understand the flicker of relief that flashed across Dean's face. Things were definitely on their way back to routine. He hoped Dean would get tired of this limited time off kick he was on, and soon. Sam had never really had much desire to visit Vegas, which Dean would only point out as a huge indication of how big a geek he was. He watched Dean join the crowd of people standing in front of the counter. The smell of grease was thick in the air, making him both revolted and hungry. Dean managed to find the prettiest woman to stand next to and proceeded to spend more time looking at her than the menu board.

The woman, though, looked straight out the big glass restaurant window and right over to Sam. Her eyes were large, he noted, and very dark. Sam sat up uncomfortably as the eyes got larger and darker by the second. Dean didn't even notice. Sam watched his brother for signs of alarm, but as Dean blatantly undressed the woman with his eyes he gave no indication he thought anything was wrong. He turned toward Sam himself and mock whistled while pointing to the woman behind his raised hand. Sam looked at her again, and she was Jess now. No, no. Jess smiled at him, her teeth yellow and sharp, her smile so wide it looked as though it would split her face.

"Dean," he said.

Sam bolted forward, and was jerked back by his lap belt. He hardly ever used the damned thing, and now… He fumbled with the clasp, fingers made clumsy by urgency and awkward because he didn't dare tear his eyes away from his brother. The thing pretending to be Jess laughed at him and lunged toward Dean.

"Dean, look out!" he shouted.

Dean didn't hear him, and even if he had it was too late. The thing wrapped its arms around Dean, seeming now to have more than two. It clung to his brother, spun him around so his face was to Sam. Dean now looked shocked yet resigned to what was happening. The thing stroked Dean's hair and stuck a tongue in his ear. Sam's hands felt as though they were covered in gauze. He was trapped, able only to watch.

"Someone help him!" He didn't recognize his own voice, it was so distorted and deep with emotion. "Help him."

No one moved, as if they were frozen in place. It made his own worthless movements seem all the more frenetic. He already knew it didn't matter if he ever got free. The thing had its mouth over Dean's in an evil parody of a kiss, and its hands were under his shirt. Sam saw a dark stain spreading across Dean's abdomen, saw his brother convulse and fight weakly. Sam became frozen himself, staring at the image of Dean and the thing. The thing released its hold and Dean slumped to the floor, bloody and lifeless. The thing stood above him. Sam didn't know what it was, and yet he knew exactly what it was.

"Dean," he said again, barely able to get the name past the tremendous lump in his throat. "Oh,

God."

All the air seemed to suck out of the car, despite the open window. Sam couldn't catch his breath. A five hundred pound weight might as well have been sitting on his chest. Dean was dead and it was his fault. Sam couldn't look away. The thing laughed at him as it had before, teeth dripping red with his brother's blood. It wiped Jess's slender arm across its mouth, leaving a wide maroon streak down the forearm. He watched, still transfixed, as the thing wavered and flickered and melted into something else, a gray shape with black, unkempt hair, strangely familiar. Its teeth remained the same, gory yellow and red and sharp. Sam gasped for air. The compression on his lungs, whether real or psychological, left him in distress. He tried to look away from the hag and couldn't.

Sam bucked against the pressure of the seatbelt, his body fighting instinctively to break away from the force on his abdomen. It felt like more than the seatbelt, that it pressed down on him and pinned him in place. It really felt as though some invisible weight sat on him, but the biting pain on his hip told him it was only the car's safety device. He opened his eyes and heaved for air, throat raw. He slumped back, the pressure that was keeping him in place easing slightly. He heard a tapping noise, saw two figures at his window.

"Hey, man, you might not want to take a nap here," a voice with a slight Southern drawl told him. Sam blinked at the square-jawed face peering at him. The guy's eyes were partially obscured by a dark baseball cap, but he didn't seem threatening. "You'll get yourself mugged. Or worse."

"Picture that," the other, faceless guy said, a dark tan hand reaching for his buddy. "Come on, Nick. Guy's probably just waiting for someone. And I'm damn hungry."

Sam's heart tripped again when he read the letters LVPD emblazoned in glaring white on the guys' jackets. He sat up slightly. He wasn't wearing the lap belt. He wiped a hand down his face, then waved the two cops off. They walked toward the restaurant, each of them giving him at least one more long look before apparently deciding he was fine.

He looked around in confusion. He didn't remember closing his eyes or…he'd fallen asleep. Sam pinched the bridge of his nose; his head hurt a lot. He dropped his hand onto his lap and stared into the restaurant. Dean still stood in line. There was no blood, no death. Dean noticed the LVPD duo and glanced over to him with a nervous expression. The beautiful woman who'd been there before, and in Sam's dream, was gone. No premonition, he thought, just his very overactive imagination playing out in his subconscious. He gave Dean a slight nod to let him know the line had moved. Dean turned away, business as usual, but Sam found he couldn't relax entirely.

Nothing happened. Dean finally got to the counter, picked up a couple greasy burgers and then they drove back to the hotel. By the time they got there, Sam convinced himself it was no big deal and he hadn't been fighting for air when he woke up. The car reeked of fast food, kind of oppressive and yet his stomach growled. He was more than just hungry; he was starved.

"It's going to take forever to air the car out," Sam said as he slid out of the passenger seat.

"I know, dude, but I didn't want to stick around," Dean told him, looking across the car with a miserable expression on his face. "I almost came to drag your sorry ass inside, but…" He paused, expression changing to chagrin. "You're not going to believe me. There was this girl checking me out."

"And?" Sam failed to see the relevance. Dean opened the hotel door, then tossed the keys onto the nightstand by his own bed and dug through the greasy paper bag. He handed Sam a foil-wrapped sandwich. "How is that different from usual?"

"She kind of creeped me out. I mean, she was hot and everything, but something about her wasn't quite right."

Sam closed his eyes. He watched the thing that wasn't Jess suck the life from Dean. Not real, not real, didn't happen. He opened his eyes again and walked to the room's small table. He dropped the burger on it, no longer quite as famished, before he sat down.

"What?" Dead said. "It's not like I'm into _every_ girl I see."

Dean plopped down across from him. He already had his burger half unwrapped and he proceeded to take a huge bite out of it. Sam shook his head, slightly amazed and revolted by his brother's total lack of table manners. He could smell the food even more now, surprised when he instantly regained a little of his appetite. It wouldn't do any good if he ran himself ragged without food.

"She looked familiar, though."

"Dude, don't talk with your mouth full."

Dean stopped chewing for a second, long enough to give Sam an icy glare and then he continued chewing noisily and swallowed purposefully. Sam swore sometimes he was the older brother. He took a normal human-sized bite out of his sandwich and chewed slowly. Dean rolled his eyes and raised his left pinky in the air when he brought his burger back up to his mouth.

"It felt like I'd seen her somewhere before," Dean said between bites. Sam wondered why he kept talking about it. He was on edge. "She kind of looked like…never mind."

Ignoring the napkins, Dean rubbed his fingers on his jeans and looked awkwardly at a spot just over Sam's left shoulder. Sam had to force himself not to look, half expecting there was something behind him. Dean's expression was intense, but somehow carefully blank.

"Like what?" Sam said, but he didn't really want to know. He put his sandwich down and reached for a napkin. He forced his own expression – a smile – and forced himself to be normal. Play normal. "Dean, drama's my gig, not yours."

"She looked sort of…a lot like Jess," Dean said, and grimaced as if he regretted saying it.

Sam wanted to puke.


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer is in chapter 3. :)_

_Weaver, Chapter 4_

Well, Vegas hadn't been a total bust, Dean thought as he looked at the city's lights shrinking in the side mirror. He might not have enjoyed himself as much as a guy in Sin City really ought to have, but he had won them more money on their second attempt at a day off. He shouldn't have mentioned the girl who looked like Jess, though. That had been a huge miscalculation on his part, but something felt even stranger about that than just the resemblance. He just didn't know what. Dean looked over at Sam, whose eyes were steadfastly on the road and hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, like proper driving technique was the only thing in the world that mattered. At least the Jess look-alike was a tangible reason for Sam acting like a freakshow.

"You should get some rest, Dean. This could get pretty ugly," Sam said. Dean was embarrassed when he wasn't able to stop a jerk of surprise at the soft intrusion of Sam's voice in the silent car. "I know you didn't sleep much last night."

He was embarrassed again, this time because he was losing his touch. He hadn't slept not because he was out doing guy things in Vegas (clearly a sore point with him), but because he was hovering over Sam, making sure his brother kept breathing. Sam had a point though, he thought with a yawn, and he told himself that his touch was fine; it was just that Sam was re-honing his own skills. He slouched down until he could comfortably rest his head against the back of the seat. With Sam driving, he could actually stretch his legs out most of the way as well.

"Yeah," Dean said. "But it never gets too ugly for me to handle."

Dean gave his brother a sideways glance. Sam still looked like ass, but one rare night's good sleep had visibly improved the shadows under his eyes. He knew it didn't have anything to do with him playing guard, but he was glad he'd done it anyway. He closed his eyes, not really intending to sleep. Years of fighting at his dad's side had taught him how to get by on very little actual sleep when he had to, and caffeine. Sam would probably catch up to him on that, the same way his fighting skills improved the more he practiced them. Dean also had to admit that he wasn't convinced Sam was okay just because he'd slept through the night, making sleep for himself unlikely anytime soon. So sue him, he was a big brother.

"Right, you're a regular superman," Sam said quietly.

He turned his head away and smiled. So maybe Sam wasn't okay. He was getting there. Dean relaxed all his muscles, including his brain, and just faded into that place where he could still hear and was aware of his surroundings. Sam would call it meditation or some crap like that. Dean didn't care if it had a name, he just knew it worked for him and it meant he could sometimes be the hovering ninny he was without Sam knowing about it.

It was the lack of engine noise that pulled him back to full consciousness. Dean cracked his eyes open. Squinting to block out the bright sunshine, he looked around. Sam wasn't behind the wheel, though his jacket was draped across the seat. For one second, Dean felt that intrinsic sense of panic, the one he had experienced since childhood, had even in a muted way through the anger, when Sam was…separated from him and their dad. The feeling dissipated when he realized the car was parked next to a gas pump. He sat up, his back and neck stiff from too long in one position. Sam was probably in the station.

He had to use the can, then he'd find his brother inside, maybe pick up some snacks. Dean peered at the old, dusty building, the ancient gas pumps that didn't let a guy pay with a fake credit card and nixed the snacks. This looked like the kind of place where even the packaged and preserved for eternity snack food was stale. God, he hoped this rat hole wasn't their final destination. He slid out of the car and only noticed then how friggin' hot it was.

"I hate the desert," he muttered.

He didn't see Sam in the station, and knew his brother hadn't gone to the bathroom. The attendant, a fat, middle-aged dude with no hair and some nasty sweat stains down the front of his shirt and at the pits, gave him a dirty look when he asked where to find the restroom. Words weren't spoken, just a gesture with a meaty thumb and then the guy handed him a key that had a gigantic piece of wood as key chain. The words "piss off" were carved into it. Hilarious. Dean wasn't that picky, but he just knew the bathroom was going to be unpleasant. He looked around outside again, noted several other small buildings across the highway.

Turned out he was right about the bathroom. Lardo the Hardworking Gas Station Attendant had probably never thought once about cleaning it. Dean peed fast and got the hell out. Sam was still nowhere to be seen outside, or inside. He slapped the key on the counter.

"I don't suppose you saw where the guy who filled up on pump…well, that one," Dean said, pointing to the Impala, "went, did you?"

"I'm not paid to keep track of people once they've paid," Lardo said. "And bathrooms are for paying customers only."

Dean glared. Lardo blinked.

"My brother paid."

"Your 'brother' didn't use the toilet."

"Oh, for…" Dean barely refrained from telling the guy where he could go. Instead, he picked up a pack of gum and tossed it on the counter. He fished around for his wallet and pulled a dollar out of it. "There. Happy?"

"Ecstatic. Thank you for stopping at the Gas And Go. Have a nice day."

Jerkwad. Dean grabbed his gum and left. No sign of Sam. Damn if that panicky feeling wasn't coming back stronger than ever. Or maybe he was just hungry, for more than stale snacks. He scratched his stomach. One of the buildings across the highway looked like it could be a roadside diner. There was one car parked in front of it, and it seemed as likely a place as any for Sam to have gone. Dean loped across the highway. He pretended the thought of Sam doubled over in pain from one of his freaky visions somewhere hadn't occurred to him.

Up closer, the diner looked as old and dusty as the gas station. The sign proclaiming Big Betty's "the best eats this side of Las Vegas!" was barely readable even as he stood right next to it. Dean supposed advertisement wasn't necessary when a place was the only restaurant for miles. He pushed open the door, instantly assailed with the smell of bacon grease and burnt coffee. He noticed right away that the interior was clean, and that Sam was nowhere in sight. He walked up to the counter, looking for anyone.

"Hello?" he said. "Anyone here?"

"Keep your pants on, I'll be right out," a deep voice called from the back. A few seconds later a guy about seven feet across stalked through the swinging door separating the diner from the kitchen. "What can I do you for?"

Whoa, Betty looked like someone not to mess with. Along with the broad shoulders, the diner's proprietor had bulging biceps and pecs, enough hair to knit a blanket (thankfully tied back in a ponytail) and his T-shirt stretched tightly pretty much everywhere. Betty was the anti-Betty.

"Noth…" The bacon grease actually smelled good. "I don't know yet. I was, uh, I'm looking for my brother."

"The guy who looks like an oversized twelve-year-old?"

"Yeah, that's Sam," Dean said, but thought his brother would not appreciate the accurate description at all. "We stopped for gas over there."

"He's in the head as far as I know."

Aw, he should have thought of that. Dean wished Sam had taken the time to drive over here; he could have avoided the whole Lardo interaction and the bathroom from hell. He nodded at Big Betty and took a seat at the counter. The bacon smell was really enhancing his hunger.

"What do you got that's good?"

"It's all good," Betty told him. "Your brother ordered two plates, so I'm assuming one is yours. Coffee?"

"Plan on making fresh?"

"So no coffee. It'll be a few and I'm on my own until the lunch crowd. Entertain yourself."

Talkative bunch they had out here in the middle of freaking nowhere. Betty stomped back to the kitchen while Dean tried to imagine what constituted a rush. He glanced at the clock on the wall, which was thick with dust, the Plexiglas cover yellowed. Eleven o'clock. Betty's reinforcements better get here soon or they'd miss lunch. More to the point, what the hell was taking Sam so long? Dean stood and wandered through the restaurant until he found the bathroom signs. He didn't know if he was afraid or awed by the eclectic mix of daisy wallpaper with skulls, eagles and daggers in all the accessories Betty had decorated the diner with.

He pushed open the door of the bathroom. Sam stood by one of the two sinks, his sleeves rolled up. Dean narrowed his eyes at the way his brother didn't even notice a new presence in the room, and how the fluorescent lighting accentuated the dark under eye circles Dean had thought were fading.

"Hey," he said. He gave Sam a very little bit of credit for not flinching too noticeably. Anyone other than himself wouldn't have even seen the stiffening of shoulders or momentary pause in action. "Thanks for leaving me in the car, dude."

"Dean," Sam said, turning to him with all traces of surprise wiped from his face. "I was going to come get you when the food was ready. I swear."

"Hope you ordered something I like."

"Please." Sam grabbed a handful of paper towels, rubbing his face and arms dry. "Like there's anything here you wouldn't like. No such thing as a healthy menu at Big Betty's."

"Live by the grease. Where the hell are we?"

"The middle of nowhere. Only have an hour and a half to drive, but we were almost out of gas." That meant Dean had dozed for about two, three hours. Damn, he hadn't meant to do that. "I was hungry anyway, so I stopped."

"Yeah, I could eat."

"You could always eat."

"I'm a growing boy."

Sam moved toward him. Dean let him pass, and swore it looked as though his brother was moving stiffly, like they'd already gone through a rough hunt. Not for the first time, he wondered if Sam had told him the whole truth about the time he spent with Max. When it came down to it, all he really knew was that Sam had ended up locked in a closet and had got out again in time to prevent Max from blowing a hole in his head. Sam probably had hidden bruises.

"When we hit Winnemucca we should have time to canvass the town, make sure we're really dealing with some kind of Black Dog," Sam said. "The news reports say the attacks only happen at night, and it's not like Black Dogs to exhibit this level of violence."

It occurred to him that this was the most Sam had said to him for almost 24 hours, and even if it was all job talk, Dean found himself grateful. It meant Sam was ready enough to move on, and ready enough to hunt despite his tiredness. Dean decided he'd drive the remainder of the trip, if he had to wrestle the keys away from Sam. He followed his brother back to into the restaurant, which now contained five truckers and two waitresses.

"Huh. Betty wasn't kidding," Dean said. They hadn't been in the bathroom more than two minutes.

"Stretch, Muscles. Your order's up," Betty's booming voice called out.

Sam turned to him and mouthed "Muscles?" and gave him a tiny smile. Dean quirked an eyebrow and mouthed "Stretch?" in return, though that beat oversized twelve-year-old by a mile. Sam rolled his eyes and strolled to the counter and two plates of food.

"Dude, give me the keys. I want to move the car before I eat," Dean said, slapping Sam's shoulder. "I don't trust Lardo over there to not tow it or something worse."

"I can go." Sam looked sheepish. "The food got done faster than I thought."

"Nah, it's okay." This was the perfect chance to grab driving rights without making it look like he wanted Sam to rest. Sam handed him the keys. "Don't eat my fries."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

Traffic had picked up on the highway, and it took him longer to get the car moved than he had anticipated. Dean had to drive half a mile up the road before he found a spot to turn around. By the time he finally got back to Betty's, he figured his food would be cold and Sam would be done eating.

"That was a pain in the ass," he groused when he finally made his way to the counter. Betty's had picked up another handful of customers. "There's actually traffic out there now."

Sam didn't respond. Dean leaned closer. His brother didn't even blink, just stared straight ahead with his BLT sans B raised halfway to his open mouth. That nameless where'sSam feeling struck again, even though Sam was sitting right beside him. He reached out and shook Sam slightly.

"Dude," Dean said, brusquely to mask his mounting concern. An irrational thought that Sam wasn't even breathing set in. "Sammy? Hey."

Sam coughed, and then blinked several times. The look on his face, the total blankness, actually, freaked Dean out, and it lasted for a ten count before Sam turned to look at him. It felt alarmingly familiar to him, and if Sam clutched at his head in excruciating pain Dean wouldn't be surprised. He wouldn't be happy, either, but at least he'd know what the hell was going on.

"Hey, you're back. That was fast," Sam said.

Oh, this was not good. Dean didn't know how to address the issue, mostly because he had no freaking clue what the issue actually was. If Sam had sat there letting the mayo ooze out of his sandwich the whole time Dean was moving the car, then that was a problem. He glanced at the sandwich in question. It looked as though Sam had taken maybe two bites out of it. The truth might be the best route.

"I was gone at least ten minutes."

Sam looked at him with a helpless, confused expression. "That's not possible. You just left."

"Ten minutes ago. Check your sandwich." Dean could see the lettuce and tomato were limp, the toast soggy. "I think you've been holding that thing for a while, dude. What the hell's going on with you?"

"I don't know." Sam looked away from him. "I just started thinking and spaced out, I guess."

Dean was almost inclined to believe that explanation. Sam did have a tendency to live in his head lately…always, more than he personally thought healthy. Sam took a bite of the sandwich, then made a slight grimace and set it down.

"Thinking about what?" Dean said. He made himself eat his now-unappetizing burger, both because he needed the energy and he needed Sam not to know this was bothering him. "Must have been pretty important."

"Nothing, really."

"Right."

"No, my mind just wandered. It happens."

It happened sometimes, yeah, but it didn't give Dean confidence to know they were going into a tough fight with Sam tired and distracted to the point of slipping into lengthy trances. He was pretty sure whatever was going on in Sam's head, it wasn't about lollipops and candy canes.

"I need to know you're ready for this," Dean said, aware he was issuing pretty much the same concern Sam had made about him at the start of the road trip. "We can take another day before we do anything."

"And let someone else get hurt, or even killed?"

Dean figured they'd need several hours of research time, so they wouldn't get any hunting in until the next night. He could only hope Sam got himself into some kind of shape by then.

"It won't do anyone any good if _we_ get hurt by this thing."

He swore he saw a brief flicker of fear in Sam's eyes. There was more to it. Recognition. Understanding. Sam looked haunted, as though he'd already witnessed someone else dying. Dean knew that couldn't be possible, because if that were the case, Sam should have already leapt into action and told him all about it. Dean regretted ever giving Sam a hard time about his visions. He shoved the rest of the burger into his mouth hurriedly, barely bothering to chew and swallow as he prodded Sam out of the diner and into the car. He didn't like Sam being vague, but really didn't want to start another discussion about it. Once they took care of this problem, they'd deal with whatever personal crap they had to.

_A/N: That's it for tonight. I need a break. Whew. I'll post more chapters tomorrow..._


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer post is in chapter 3_

_Weaver, chapter 5_

"Stop. Here. From what I can tell, it looks like the attacks originated along this stretch of the railroad tracks," Sam said. It was only a couple miles outside city limits. "They've happened on several arterial roads since then, all around the edges of town. Like the thing is holding this place captive. Herding the town."

"And they don't even know it."

"Apparently animal incidents aren't that uncommon out here. It's only recently they've increased enough for anyone to take notice. Regular attacks didn't really happen at night, either."

"If the thing has smartened up and has staggered its attacks, you know we probably won't find much out here, right?" Dean said. He switched off the engine and everything became really quiet for a second. Sam glanced over. Dean was squinting at the rocky landscape. "Its tracks won't look much different than a regular dog's. Maybe bigger."

"We have to start somewhere." Sam wasn't entirely sure Dean wasn't hoping to find nothing. Sam wasn't entirely sure he was right there with him on that. "Right?"

Dean gave him a funny look, not the first in the past few days, and again Sam didn't blame him. He knew he wasn't pulling off normal, but was just too damn tired to try very hard anymore. And apparently it showed. He couldn't stop thinking. His brain was always on, and it was always tuned to something pretty horrible. His dreams. Nothing in them left him with the underlying sense they were portentous he was familiar with, only apprehension and exhaustion.

"Right." Sam waited for the inevitable. "You do have my back?"

Sam nodded, but yawned for dramatic effect. It was the perfect thing to do. Dean immediately lost his anxious expression and scowled at him instead. Sam's door creaked as he opened it and slid out of the car. The air out here was crisp and fresh like it couldn't be in a city. It helped wake him up and cleared his head. He met Dean at the trunk.

"How sure are we silver bullets are going to work on this thing?" Sam said.

"Yeah, that's kind of tricky."

"Tricky how?"

"Tricky as in we've never actually fought one before. They're not a North American phenomena for the most part," Dean said. He darted Sam a glance and grabbed for the bullets. "Some legends include shape shifting, so we start with silver bullets and improvise if that doesn't work."

"And hope like hell we can get away if they don't work." Not a happy thought. "What if it's not even corporeal?"

"Regret skipping your morning runs now, don't you?"

"Hey, I can take you any day of the week."

Dean snarked about an unfair advantage, which Sam had to admit was true. By sheer genetic luck, his stride alone made him a decent runner. Unless he purposely slowed his gait just walking, he left people in his wake all the time. Supernatural beings didn't exactly follow that rule, and since they really did seem to target him he figured Dean's question was valid. What Dean didn't know was that Sam counted on it going after him. The Black Dog, if it was here and he felt certain it was, had to come after him. The alternative was one of those horrible things he couldn't stop thinking about, a thing that wouldn't come to life if he had anything to do with it.

"You think maybe it lives here?" Dean said. "Just expands out to keep people from hunting it down?"

"It's got to sleep or…whatever somewhere, right?"

"Dude, if it's an apparition it's not really going to sleep."

"It's not really going to live, either, is it? Let's just start looking."

Dean slammed the trunk shut and started walking away. Sam followed. The railroad tracks were desolate and bare. Sam wondered if it meant anything that the dog had chosen it instead of a road, if maybe it was bigger or different because of its choice of haunting. He decided it wouldn't be a good idea to dwell on that. It wouldn't change the ultimate purpose for them tromping around in the near-dark; since they already didn't know if they had what they needed to get rid of it, size didn't make that much of a difference.

They split only slightly. Sam made sure he kept a direct line on Dean's location every second, and he was comforted to know Dean did the same for him. Especially since Dean was the one who'd done the research on the legends while he had scoured the town's news articles. He did know that it wasn't a good thing to encounter these things alone. Dean had made sure to stress that about five times on the way out there. Sam stroked the barrel of his pistol lightly. It might have been a better idea to grab a rifle, he thought. If this thing turned out to be big, a handgun wasn't the best force weapon.

He didn't see any recent tracks, but then the terrain was rocky and the wind would blow them away pretty quickly. Which it apparently had, if they had ever been there. Sam couldn't even tell where Dean had walked. He wasn't exactly the best tracker in the family, though. His skill set was different, way different. There wasn't much about him that wasn't diametrically opposite of his brother and father. Sam squinted at the copse of small, gnarly trees and felt as though a big weight pressed down on him. Not physical, he didn't think, but almost as tangible anyway.

"You got anything, Dean?" he said softly.

"Some EMF activity, but that could be the power lines. These things aren't that reliable so close to them. You?"

"No, but…"

"What?" Dean said, and Sam could _hear_ his brother tensing just in the way the word came out of his mouth.

"I don't know, does the air feel…heavy to you?"

"That's part of what this thing does, Sam. Shake it off." The feeling couldn't be what he thought it might be if Dean felt it too. Sam was incredibly relieved to know that. "Keep your head clear."

Dean had an amazing way of making this all look easy. Sam had to wonder, though, how much of the cool and collected Dean was a façade. He'd seen more and more glimpses of what lay beneath his shell the longer they were on the road together. He still hated that this was his life now, but he did like getting to know Dean on a level he hadn't been able to as a kid. He was discovering the way he thought Dean had been wasn't really the way Dean actually was. Everything he thought was black and white was becoming shaded in variations of gray.

Sam shook his head and returned to studying the terrain. And it finally occurred to him that the tracks he should be looking for weren't necessarily physical. Duh. If the Black Dog was casting a gloom on emotions, then that meant they had found the right spot and that the creature was probably nearby right now.

"Dean," he said, turning toward his brother again.

Dean stood stock still, frozen in a stance Sam would have recognized immediately even if Dean didn't have his weapon raised. Their prey _was_ there. He brought his own weapon up slowly and silently asked Dean where it was. A simple head bob indicating a point behind him was all he got. Sam resisted the urge to swing around, aware that motion would provoke the Black Dog into action. Dean kept his eyes locked on him long enough to gain assurance Sam wasn't going to make any sudden movements. At least he didn't have to worry about Dean being attacked anymore. It was better if it was him; Dean wouldn't let anything happen to him. Sam's heart pounded harder, seeming to create pressure from within that rivaled the weight on his shoulders and all around him.

His brother took a careful step, gave Sam one last, long look and then aimed his gun. Sam braced, ready to dive out of the way if he had to. He couldn't sense anything behind him, had no feeling he was being stalked at all. He relied on Dean's movements to tell him what was going on behind him. An overwhelming feeling of dread returned, and he tried to suppress it; negative thinking could only get in the way and that was the last thing he needed while Dean had a gun pointed in his general vicinity.

"Down," Dean ordered sharply.

Sam dove for the ground, and immediately rolled onto his back with his handgun up. Dean's shot rang out before Sam could get a line on the Black Dog. It didn't matter. He didn't see anything. Dean popped off several more shots, though. Sam frowned at the empty space in befuddlement. He stayed flat on his back until he was sure Dean was done, then sat up carefully.

"Dean, what the hell…?" he said, turning his torso to give his brother a glare. "Dean!"

Dean no longer stood where he had but lay on the ground. Sam choked. There was blood, a lot of it, pooling in the hollow at the base of Dean's neck. An image of Dean lying in Max's house, bullet hole in the middle of his forehead superimposed itself over his brother for a second, and then switched to what he'd seen in his dream the night before. He shook his head and looked around quickly. Sam didn't see the Black Dog anywhere. He didn't bother getting to his feet, scuttling over on hands and knees. The rocky ground tore at his left hand, his right protected by the butt of the gun. This wasn't happening, this couldn't be happening again. Sam tried to breathe around the lump that had formed in his throat. He'd failed. He shakily reached out.

"Dean?"

"Shit, that thing is fast," Dean croaked, fishing around a little. "I did not see that coming."

Sam let out a shaky laugh. Up close, he saw that there wasn't as much blood as he'd thought, though there was a decent set of slash marks along Dean's right jaw line. Right where they'd been in the dream. He winced in sympathy and helped ease Dean to a sitting position. Sam's heart continued to pump fast, his skin prickled with adrenaline.

"What happened?" Sam said, trying not to sound too scared or too dumb.

"It's a sneaky bastard." Dean grunted and clambered to his feet awkwardly, waving his gun hand when Sam tried to help. The other hand pressed against the wound. "I'm not one to run from a fight, but can this wait until we get out of here?"

"Right."

They walked quickly to the car. Sam was more than a bit concerned by Dean's inability to walk a straight line. He hovered near enough to catch a fall, but far enough that Dean didn't object to him doing it. He was still new at this, too, being the one to offer this kind of support. Listening to Jess vent about a bad day was so different. He grimaced.

"Keys."

Dean didn't argue, heading right to the passenger seat. Sam popped the trunk and grabbed their makeshift first aid kit. A little gauze would go a long way to soak up the blood, a hell of a lot farther than Dean's hand. He tossed the kit onto his brother's lap before he slid behind the wheel. He jammed the key in the ignition at the same time he moved the seat back as far as it would go.

"Aw, man," Dean said under his breath. Sam glanced over once he got the car on the road. "Why do they always go for the face?"

Sam shook his head and smiled. What remained of his apprehension faded at Dean's grousing; as long as his brother made bitchy comments, he was all right. Sam checked the rear view mirror and saw nothing but dust. It bothered him that it had all gone down and he hadn't seen or felt anything. Maybe Dean had been right to question his readiness.

"It won't even leave a scar, man."

"Even if it did, it would just make me look rakish and even more handsome."

"There's always that," Sam said, and rolled his eyes.

Darkness was falling around them fast. Sam reached forward and flicked the headlights on. They were already back in city limits. He turned onto West Winnemucca. At night the small-town attempt at Vegas garishness looked sad. Still, he had to admit he found the Butch Cassidy stuff that proliferated the town amusing and a little interesting. Their motel was, however, the most nondescript on the main mini-strip of Winnemucca. Sam pulled the car into the lot.

Dean rolled out of the car with another grumble about his latest war wound. Sam sat in the car for a second, glad to see Dean's gait had lost its unsteadiness. He got out, and followed his brother into the room. Dean's jacket was on the floor in a heap, shrugged off carelessly. Dean himself was in the bathroom assessing the damage under the unforgiving fluorescent lighting.

"Hey, see if there are any clear butterfly bandages in the kit, will you?" Dean said. "You're right. I don't think these will scar."

Sam grabbed the jacket off the floor and found the first aid kit under it. He sighed and tossed the jacket onto one of the beds. They'd neglected the kit – there were enough bandages for a first dressing only. Since they were still hunting they'd probably need more. Sam remembered _they_ hadn't neglected the kit. _He_ had. It had been his turn to keep an eye on it. He hoped there was a decent drug store in town. He took the butterflies, the bottle of Bactine and a couple cotton balls into the bathroom. Dean poked at the deepest scratch.

"Here, let me help."

"Sam, I can patch my own wounds."

"I know you can." Sam set the supplies down on the tank of the toilet. "That's not the point. I can probably get the bandages on tighter. You don't want to scar, remember."

"Fine."

Dean sat down and looked up toward the ceiling, jaw out; he'd already cleaned up the blood, and the scratches were only oozing a little bit. Sam doused the cotton balls with Bactine and swabbed at Dean's jaw, snickering lightly at his brother's annoyed hiss of discomfort.

"So what happened back there?" he said casually.

"I saw the Dog behind you, or at least I thought I did. After you went down and I shot at it, something else came at me."

"Another Black Dog?" Sam tossed the soiled cotton balls in the trash. He let the skin dry a little, then started applying a butterfly bandage. "They don't usually travel in packs."

"Not in the UK. Their MO could be different here, for all we know," Dean said. "Make sure you get that good and tight…the one that got me was smaller, I think. I didn't get a great look at it. You really didn't see any of this?"

"No, I really didn't. I was busy ducking." He sounded defensive and he knew it. Sam stuck another bandage on Dean's jaw with too much force. Dean pulled back and glared at him. "You got off a couple shots, Dean, do you think you hit one of them?"

"Unfortunately not. The one behind you dissipated like a spirit, and my other shots were a bit wild."

"Dissipated from silver? Huh."

"I wonder if Black Dogs can astral project. Maybe there really was only one, but it looked like two," Dean said. Sam raised his eyebrows. Dean shrugged. Yeah, that was dumb. "Ambush or astral projection, I didn't want to be stuck out there in the dark with them coming at us from any direction."

"What are we going to do, Dean? We'll have the same problem tomorrow night."

"But I won't be bleedin' all over." Dean flashed him a smile, rising to his feet. He clapped Sam on the shoulder as he moved past him back into the room. "I figure it couldn't hurt to do more research. I'll check to see if any of Dad's friends have called back yet. They might know something we don't."

"And…I'll go get us something to eat while you do that."

"It's like you read my mind," Dean said. Sam heard the teasing tone and shot Dean a dirty look, who flashed him a smile. "Might as well stock up for a couple days. Buy beer."

Dean was already sprawled on the bed doing research by watching TV, apparently, when Sam started off in search of food and medical supplies. Giving his brother one last backwards glance as he shut the door, Sam tried to pretend away what both of them knew was a possibility – that Dean seeing the Black Dogs was as good as a death sentence if they didn't figure out a way to kill the creatures. There was no way to determine if the legend of the Dogs being portents of death was true, but there was no way to determine it wasn't. Sam didn't plan on buying many groceries; he hoped they wouldn't be in Winnemucca very long. If they were, he might end up with a room full of food and no brother.

And that was something he really didn't think he could handle.


	6. Chapter 6

I disclaim again: I don't own them, which should be obvious, because if I did you can bet I'd never let them out of my house. ahem

Weaver, chapter 6

He'd been certain Pastor Jim would come through for them, but it was Bobby who ended up giving them what they needed. He hoped, anyway. They were on a clock. After Sam came back the previous night without beer and after he also refused to go out for one, they'd spent the evening doing more research. Turned out there weren't only increased animal attacks, but increased accidental deaths. In a town as small as this one was, that was something they should not have missed the first time around. Second chances were rare in their line of work, after all.

"I'm not sure I get how this is supposed to work," Dean said. If he told himself the truth, he wasn't very sure it would even if Bobby knew his stuff. It had never been tested. "If legends say that some manifestations of Black Dogs disappear at the sound of bells, how exactly are we supposed to get one around this monster's neck? I think that's a bit of a flaw in the plan."

"It would have been nice to actually see the source material."

Leave it to Sam to mourn the mere possibility of book-love. Dean kept his mouth shut. Sam was on top of this stuff much better than him on this hunt, and he didn't need to piss off the guy who knew what to do. He'd spent the day too busy being paranoid about if he was going to bite it because some yokel named Boyd ran over him with a truck to research and materials-gather. Sam seemed okay with it. In fact, Sam was more alert than he had been for a while; good sleep catching up with him. Or it was the book-love by proxy.

"Bobby knows what he's talking about."

"I know he does. It just feels, I dunno, like we got to the end of a puzzle without all the pieces."

"Dude, come on," Dean said. "That's the lamest thing you've said in a long time. We've had help from people before."

"True." Sam sighed. Dean heard paper rustling as Sam looked through the notes he'd scribbled. "Bobby said bells would stop them, not that we had to put them around their necks."

Dean pulled the car to a stop. He still had a hard time buying that, but he couldn't really say that now, after telling Sam he was lame. Because if Bobby said to ring the bells, they should ring the bells.

"You think that'll work?"

"You're the one who said Bobby knows his stuff."

Right. Dean peered out the window. They didn't know if the Dogs would be in the same spot. Neither he nor Sam had been able to find an evident pattern to their attacks, only that they were scattered in differing locales surrounding the town. The suckers were definitely sneaky. Sneaky wasn't easy to fight, which was why bells seemed stupid.

"Yeah. But…bells?"

"It worked for Pavlov." Sam probably thought he didn't get that. "I've been thinking of a way we can use them."

"Create a perimeter, connect them all with rope, wait for the Dogs to show up and breach the perimeter and then we trip it?" Dean said, putting as much 'well, duh, fool' attitude into his tone as he could. "Just an idea. We should have just enough daylight left to get it all set up."

Dean smirked and got out of the car, leaving Sam with his mouth gaping open. Sometimes Sam forgot that just because he preferred to avoid research didn't mean he was stupid. Sam needed reminding now and again, and Dean had to admit he enjoyed the hell out of producing those flustered expressions. It was about a minute before Sam got out of the car and joined him at the trunk.

"I hope it's still around tonight," Sam said. "Your idea's decent."

"Just decent? Sammy, I'm insulted." Sam huffed out something under his breath and reached for the bells. Big ass suckers. The only store that had what they were looking for had been a feed and livestock supply place, but cowbells should work for what they were going to do. "It was the first and most obvious thing to try. Even if bells are a stupid idea."

"So you were just being a jackass when you were complaining about putting bells around their necks."

"I wouldn't put it that way," Dean said. "But why did you think we were getting so many of these things? I had the idea as soon as Bobby said bells."

"Whatever," Sam said. "Let's just get working."

Dean declared himself victor. Reigning champion, actually. They each grabbed a couple bells and clanked over to the general area of yesterday's attack. Even if the Dogs went on the prowl somewhere else, it still seemed likely that this was their…base of operations, for lack of a better term. He and Sam worked quickly. It was a pretty simple trap; they shouldn't have any problems making it work and getting out of this crappy little town. Even the casinos were podunk there. He'd won more money, but they were still podunk.

"Okay," Dean said. He secured the last bell. The trap they'd laid was big enough to hold two Dogs, if there actually were two. "That should do it."

"So now we wait."

"Yeah, but I don't think we should just sit here out it the open. These things aren't stupid."

"There isn't much cover."

Sam looked unnaturally nervous. If anyone should be on edge, it should be him. Just because nothing had happened to him yet, besides having to drink truly horrible coffee for breakfast, didn't mean something still couldn't. Damn. Dean suddenly had an urge to check over his shoulder. He did. A couple times.

"If we leave the car just sitting here, I'm afraid they'll see it and won't come back. Most of their victims haven't shot back. They might remember me."

"You think we should move the car and walk back?"

"I don't know. It should be dark by then, but I also don't like the idea of the car being way out of eyeshot."

"Six of one, half dozen of the other," Sam said. "I really think this could work."

He actually sounded like he meant that, which made the nervous facial ticks Sam was now sporting even more out of place. Dean nodded though, and made a mental note to watch his brother carefully. Bobby said the silver bullet idea had merit, but grounding the Dogs first was key. That wasn't difficult to buy, considering the crazy shit they'd gone through their whole lives.

"Probably, but I don't know if I'll be up for a long run after fighting with this thing or things. You didn't see it. Them."

"Let's assume there are two."

"Right. Anyway, if they hadn't disappeared earlier, I'm not sure we would have made it to the car," Dean said. "Even you and your long-ass stride."

Sam looked at him, consternation written all over his face. Dean had no clue what he'd said that was so annoying. Before he could ask, Sam walked to the car He followed. They loaded the unused rope back into the trunk. As he was getting behind the wheel, it finally dawned on him that Sam might be twitchy on his behalf. They were quite a pair, he thought, both too damn preoccupied with the others' welfare. That was dangerous to do anywhere, let alone on a hunt. It was also all he had in his life that felt solid. He had to say this anyway.

"We're going to get these things, Sam. You don't have to worry about me."

For a second, Sam said nothing. Dean realized it was the first time either of them had even remotely acknowledged that he could be a walking dead man, though it had apparently been in Sam's head as much as it had been in his.

"I don't know how you can say that," Sam said. "I don't have to worr… Dean, we don't know if killing those things will cancel out the portent."

"We don't know that it won't. We can't go around scared of our own shadows. That'll get both of us killed."

"It might be better…" Sam clenched his jaw and looked away.

Here they went again. It would have been better if he'd just kept his mouth shut. Dean started the car, put it in gear and took off, giving it more gas than he should have.

"If…?" he said, waving his right hand for emphasis.

"It might be better if we both get killed than if it's just you. If anything happens to you, you'll be dead. I'll have to go on al…"

Sam drifted off again and the car filled with emptiness. Dean knew exactly what Sam meant, because he would feel the same way, but man, he hated talking about this shit. It suddenly felt as though he had indigestion, his stomach swirling in a way that was uncomfortably reminiscent of the Sam'sgonesomething'swrong feeling he was burdened with so often. He spotted a slight copse of brush and pulled the car behind it. They sat in silence for a minute or two. Dean figured they had the time to pull themselves together before heading out for the hunt. He needed to clear his head of their discussion, and he knew Sam must too.

"I need you to listen to me, Sam," he said. Dean glanced toward Sam, but not at him, keeping his eyes focused on the dashboard. "We've faced worse than portents of death, right? You have to believe things are going to be okay, because if you don't it'll just eat at you. A self-fulfilling prophecy kind of thing."

He let Sam ruminate on that for a second, expecting some kind of reply sooner or later. When one didn't come, Dean finally looked directly at Sam…who had his head tipped back against the rest, mouth agape. Son of a bitch, here he was being all existential or whatever and Sam found it a good time to take a nap. The surge of irritation only lasted a moment, and then he was relieved. He really did hate the touchy-feely crap. He reached over to shake his brother awake.


	7. Chapter 7

_Weaver, chapter 7_

"You need a hug, Sammy?" Dean said to break the silence, leaning closer to him. "Because I know I could use one."

Unbelievable. Of all the times to joke, Dean always managed to pick the worst. Sam reached for the door. It was his own fault Dean was being so infuriating. He shouldn't have closed his eyes, let his guard down at all.

"You are such a jerk sometimes," Sam said.

He got out of the car and headed for the trunk, even though he didn't have the key to open it. Sam counted to five and timed Dean rolling out of the driver's seat to joint him perfectly. He saw a questioning smile on his brother's face and struggled to figure out a way to tell Dean what he had to.

"So I'm a jerk," Dean said without preamble. "You know I'm right about this. No dwelling on what could happen, only focus on what will – and that's killing this evil thing before it hurts anyone else. That's all that matters at the moment."

"You are right." Sam looked over at him ruefully. "I'm sorry. I know that. I guess I've been kinda off lately."

Dean nodded but looked unconvinced that that was it. Sam watched him make a show of popping the trunk and selecting weapons. Dean loaded a shotgun with rock salt shells.

"Yeah, and what's that all about again?" he said casually, snapping the barrel back in place.

"I'm not sure this is the best time to talk about it." Sam snapped the barrel of his own gun into place. "Let's get through this first."

"I'm starting to think there's never going to be a best time, so the way I look at it now's as good a time as any."

Darkness fell around them. He was pretty sure Dean saw him grimace. Dean froze, just stiffened; he didn't say anything. Rather than push him, Dean just started walking. Sam slammed the trunk shut and caught up. Still, his brother didn't say anything more, and Sam couldn't take the silence.

"Fine, then," Sam said. "It's about my dreams."

Dean stopped walking, so he did too. Sam kept his eyes on the ground, but a strong hand on his forearm made him eventually look up and meet Dean's eyes. Now would be a good time for a stupid joke, he thought.

"Your dream capital D dreams," Dean said, sounding as tense as the grip he had on Sam's arm. "Or just your dreams?"

Sam had a sudden inclination to plop down on the ground right there. He didn't know how to answer the question without sounding like a complete idiot or like that kid in _The Sixth Sense_ spookily whispering about seeing dead people. He knew that despite the questions, Dean didn't really want to talk about it; he never did, as if not talking about it meant everything was fine. And if he was wrong about that, if Dean did want to hear about what had been bothering him, well that was worse than the steadfast denial his brother liked to maintain about Sam being anything other than a normal person. He didn't feel normal.

"I think just my dreams," Sam said. He hadn't woken up gasping for air from the last few ones, at least not in the same desperate way as the first one that freaked Dean out so much. They were…he couldn't shake them. "I'm pretty sure."

Sam watched Dean's jaw clench and unclench, the slashes on the right side looked almost black. The clear butterfly bandages managed to catch a little light. The dreams weren't the same as when he'd seen their childhood home or Max, but he'd seen Dean get those cuts before he actually got them. He just hadn't seen it happen in quite the same way.

"I don't know, Dean, it's hard to explain," he said. Dean didn't look like he cared how difficult it was, his eyes narrowing and lips tightening to form a harsh line. He finally let go of Sam's arm. "I don't think they're the same, but some things are."

"You've got to give me more than that," Dean said.

"At first they seemed real but I knew they weren't. The more I dream, the less I can tell." Dean looked frustrated, but didn't say anything. Sam stared at the cuts on his brother's jaw and tried to figure out how he was going to explain what he meant better. He didn't even know what he really meant. "It's like pieces of the dreams contain truth, but they're masked by all the unreality of the rest. I feel like I should be able to separate it out, and I can't."

"What do you mean?" Dean's frustration didn't fade. "Give me an example. Draw pictures if you have to."

"The scratches on your face. I saw you get them in a dream the night before last," Sam said. Dean's eyes widened and his jaw worked double-time. "But in the dream you didn't get them from a Black Dog attack. I didn't know what was going to happen last night. Specifically."

"But you kind of thought something might," Dean said, taking a couple steps down the road as if he was just going to head for the trap-site. He stopped, though, and turned around with arms spread out in front of him. In the dim light, it looked as though the shotgun was an extension of his right arm. "You didn't think I should know about this? Damnit, Sam, I've been _asking _you what was wrong."

"I know." Now that he'd finally said something, Sam realized part of what had been setting him so on edge was internalizing it. There was nothing either of them could do about his dreams or visions, but holding it in had been eating away at him. "Like I said, at first they were just crazy dreams. Not very much fun, but no big deal."

"Sam, you stopped breathing from one of them."

"Uh," Sam said. Dean straightened his shoulders and glared at him. "That happened more than once, I think."

"What? When?"

"Vegas. In-N-Out parking lot. I must have dozed off when you were inside."

He didn't want to mention that incident had been the start of Dean's appearance and major starring role in his horror movie dream fest. Sam wasn't even sure he could put a number on how many dreams he'd had since they first began. It hadn't even been a week.

"Dozed off and stopped _breathing_, you mean."

"I didn't want to worry you."

"Dude, what do you think I've been doing?" Dean said after yet another long pause, his voice icy with anger. "Maybe you were right. Maybe this isn't a good time to talk about it, because now I want to kick your ass as much as I want to kill the Black Dogs."

Dean shook his head once, then turned around and started walking away again. Sam had known it would go down like this; that was why he hadn't wanted to start the argument in the middle of the hunt. He still felt the unhelpful desire to sit down, as if a great weight pressed down on him and made his legs weak. Sam willed himself to move, however, spawned by the need to stay near his brother despite the anger.

"And what would you have done if I had said something, Dean, huh?" he said, catching up with Dean easily. "All you've done in the past is pretend it didn't bother you. Pretend I'm not like the shit we hunt every day."

"You're _not_." Sam almost believed it. Dean glanced in his direction, but not directly at him. "You're not out to hurt people."

_Tell that to Jess. Tell that to Max._ Sam swallowed. Dean had qualified his statement; he thought Sam wasn't evil, just touched by it. Not worthy of hunting (yet), but something to be wary of. Sam had known that was how his brother felt for a while, of course, but he still felt gutted by the implication.

"We don't know that, really," Sam said. The air felt thick, his throat tight. He stared at Dean, whose jaw was clenched again. "We can't know that."

"I know it. Damnit, Sam, and you should too." Sam swallowed again, or tried to. The tightness in his throat made it painful. He wished he could blame the dryness of the air on his sudden affliction. It was like he couldn't really control it – he swallowed over and over again. "Maybe I would have done what you said I would, but you still should have told me. These dreams literally take your breath and might give you some kind of messed up precognition. I had a right to know that before now."

"Because we're both so good at sharing." Sam shook his head. This was ridiculous. He felt about ten seconds away from crying or falling flat on his face. "You've been acting like it's no big deal you might die because you saw these things."

"Yeah, well, you'll see them tonight and then we'll both be in the same boat," Dean said. "Speaking of Dogs, let's get this over with. I'm tired of talking."

He would have felt vindicated, except it was too late. The misery that inevitably resulted from trying to have a serious conversation with Dean was a thick veil covering him. Sam had to shake off the negative emotions, a task make all the more difficult by the fact his brother's irritation came at him in posture alone. Dean started walking faster. Sam kept up. He couldn't believe Dean hadn't asked an obvious question.

"Dean, there's probably something else I should tell you," Sam said.

"Oh, jeez, what now?"

"The dreams have started to revolve around something bad happening to you. Not just the last one."

"Great," Dean said, heavy on the sarcasm. "Good to know impending death isn't the only thing I need to worry about."

They didn't say anything else, Sam because he didn't know what else to say and Dean probably because he was too mad. They were also too close to the trap site to talk further, and Sam thought he was probably as glad as Dean about that. He kept his eyes on the brush and boulders, looking for any sign of the Dogs, and hoping they weren't on another dusty road mauling some innocent idiots who hadn't already clued in that that shouldn't go out after dark. The thought of his dream last night crept to the fore of his mind. He didn't know how he was going to gauge this situation with that of his dream, but he had to. For Dean's sake. Sam found his throat hurt like hell all of a sudden, and he realized his chest did too. He frowned.

"Dean," he whispered, shocked at the horrible condition his voice was in. He gasped. "Dean, do you…?"

Sam clutched at his chest with his free hand. Oh, this was not the time to panic. It was just the Black Dogs unleashing their psychological whammies, nothing more. He fell to his knees, not minding the jolt it sent through him. He needed the pain. He heard something clatter to the ground. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't think his way out of the inexorable pressure squeezing the air from his lungs.

"Sam?" Dean's face appeared right in front of his, one hand gripping Sam's right bicep in a firm hold. "Sammy, look at me. Talk to me. Don't let them get to you."

"Can't." Sam wheezed. He was pretty sure the edges of his vision were going black. Hard to tell in the dusk light. His head lolled to the left. "Can't breathe."

That's when Sam saw the enormous dark shape he'd thought was a boulder move. It headed straight for Dean, rumbling all the way. There was so much noise, but Dean didn't seem to hear it. Move, move, move, Sam wanted to say, but he couldn't get so much as a murmur past his lips. Dean turned as the shape loomed above him, too late to get his weapon ready.

His brother disappeared from his limited range of vision. Sam couldn't move to see what had happened, but his ears worked just fine. The sounds of struggle surrounded him, then fell abruptly silent. Sam pitched forward, unable to stay upright even on his knees. The shock of hitting the ground actually seemed to aid his breathing for a moment or two, and he dragged in dusty air as if it were fresh. From his new horizontal point of view, he could make out Dean lying not too far away, and unconscious with the gigantic dark thing on top of him. He tried to move, aim his weapon at the darkness. It wasn't in his hands anymore. He had no control in his muscles to even try to find it.

"Dean," he whispered hoarsely, and got no answer.

Sam couldn't see well enough to tell if Dean was breathing, but he refused to believe his brother had fallen so easily to a surprise attack. He didn't have the oxygen left to laugh at how helpless he himself was. He heard the scuttle of rocks. A guttural growl followed, and loud, animalistic exhalations.

Something kicked him in the abdomen, causing his lungs to expel the air he no longer had much hope of fully regaining. He was tipped over onto his back. The sky was dark enough to reveal stars. Sam saw at least two or three of them in the very small amount of clear vision he had left. Soon it would be all black and Dean, Dean. He'd failed again. As he thought, it was all dark then, but he was still aware so he must not have lost consciousness. Solid pressure on his chest, then gone, then back again even stronger. He swore he heard his ribs crack. Then he saw teeth, a huge gaping maw in a face he recognized as more humanoid than canine. Not the Black Dog. He knew, he knew…it lunged at him and Sam knew it was over for him.

"Don't do this," a voice said, desperate and angry. "Don't you do this to me."

Sam jerked suddenly, whole body a mass of shudders. He sucked in air so deeply he coughed, and ohshit, oh shit that hurt. His first confused impulse was to roll over onto his side and continue to heave for air. Something held him in place. He thought he said "Oh God," but all he could hear was a pathetic groan and the sound of a waterfall cascading in his ears. He didn't know how long he lay on the ground trying to breathe, trapped there and yet secure, how long it took him to figure out he could hear something else. Sam looked around, found Dean practically on top of him. He struggled to make eye contact, and when he saw Dean's eyes he couldn't maintain the contact for long; the fear in them was uncharacteristically vivid.

"Jesus," Dean said roughly. He leaned closer and pulled Sam up into a semi-embrace, until his forehead rested on Dean's shoulder. The movement hurt like hell, but not as much as the sound of the frantic voice in his ear. "Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ."

When his breathing had settled and he thought maybe he could exercise some muscle control, Sam tried to ease away from Dean. Dean didn't seem to want to let him go, though he did shift around until Sam was more sprawled on his lap than propped against him. Apart from his own body regaining mobility, Sam could feel Dean's muscles thrumming.

"What happened?" Sam whispered. He had no idea. Dreaming? He hadn't had a clue he was dreaming. Dean stopped thrumming and became rock solid with tension behind him. "Dean?"

_A/N: That's all for tonight - my computer's going all wonky so I'm going to shut it down and let it rest. Seemed like as good a place as any to stop. O:)_


	8. Chapter 8

_I left you here:_

_"Jesus," Dean said roughly. He leaned closer and pulled Sam up into a semi-embrace, until his forehead rested on Dean's shoulder. The movement hurt like hell, but not as much as the sound of the frantic voice in his ear. "Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ."_

_When his breathing had settled and he thought maybe he could exercise some muscle control, Sam tried to ease away from Dean. Dean didn't seem to want to let him go, though he did shift around until Sam was more sprawled on his lap than propped against him. Apart from his own body regaining mobility, Sam could feel Dean's muscles thrumming._

_"What happened?" Sam whispered. He had no idea. Dreaming? He hadn't had a clue he was dreaming. Dean stopped thrumming and became rock solid with tension behind him. "Dean?"_

_And now:_

_Weaver, chapter 8_

Sam looked like someone had turned him inside out and then back again, and he kept rubbing at his chest and shifting as if no one position was comfortable for more than a minute at a time. Dean paced alongside the car, nerves jangling almost out of control. He hadn't been so fucking scared in years and couldn't seem to shake the feeling even though adrenaline was making a rapid exit from his muscles. Actually, maybe it was more than his nerves that were jangling. He dropped down next to Sam, leaning against the side panel. He squinted into the dark.

"This isn't good," Dean said stupidly.

Everything that had come out of his mouth since Sam revealed his dream 'issues' sounded dumb and inadequate. His brain was apparently still playing catch-up. It wasn't that often when he was at a complete loss for what to do next, but all he could really keep thinking about was Sam sprawled on the ground, lips turning blue. They shouldn't even still be out there. It had taken all Sam had just to sit up against the car; a few more minutes shouldn't matter. Truthfully, he thought he needed Sam to look less breakable before trying anything as strenuous as getting into the car. He couldn't bring himself to look at his brother to see if he appeared any better yet, so he focused on Sam's right kneecap and tried to will any accusation out of his voice.

"Why didn't you tell me all this before?"

"I thought things were getting better." Sam sounded pained, contrite and…little. It killed Dean to hear him like that. He closed his eyes briefly. "I thought they didn't mean anything. They were just dreams, Dean."

"Not if you say there's been this being in all of them." There was that accusation he didn't want to unleash, but couldn't stop. "And sure as hell not if they make your heart stop beating."

Sam shifted again, in his quest for a comfortable position he'd never find. The grating sound of gravel didn't cover up the muffled squeak that escaped from Sam's lips, a pain-filled exhalation Dean understood all too well. Considering Sam had already been exhausted, Dean knew he had to be feeling wasted. Their shoulders brushed. Dean noticed Sam's jeans were covered in dust.

"Well, I know that _now_," Sam said, trying, Dean thought, to inject humor into his voice. It didn't work. Dean didn't respond. "I don't know what you want me to say, Dean."

_Say you're sorry for scaring the shit out of me. Say we'll figure this out. Say you'll be fine._

"Nothing right now. We should probably get you out of here." Dean squinted out into the dark night. He couldn't hear any animal noises, regular or supernatural, but that didn't mean something wasn't lurking nearby. He finally glanced over at Sam, whose face was so ghostly white Dean cringed a little. "You okay to move?"

"We can't go anywhere yet." Somehow Sam managed desperate entreaty even while wan and weak. "The Black Dogs are still out there."

Dean shook his head. He was well aware of that fact, but now was not the time for a hunt. Sam should have enough sense to realize that. Hell, the guy looked about ten seconds away from passing out and tipping right over. That couldn't happen. He had no idea how he was going to prevent it.

"Yeah, they are," Dean said. "I want to take care of them too, but you're in no shape to hike a mile, and I am not leaving you alone. We can't take that chance."

Not that him being around had proved that much of a preventative measure.

"We can't just let them keep preying on people."

"Sam."

His brother was being unrealistic. And stubborn. Dean watched the entreaty on Sam's face turn to determination. Part of him agreed that eliminating the known threat so they could assess the unknown wasn't a horrible idea. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't hesitate for a second. But he'd just done chest compressions on Sam. He'd just fucking coaxed his brother back to life. These circumstances were so far from normal it was almost funny.

"Dean, we're out here now." Sam closed his eyes and wilted back against the car as if trying to collapse into himself. He took a couple shaky, shallow breaths. When Sam opened his eyes again, he stared at Dean intensely, with a tiny facial tic evidencing his continued discomfort. "We don't know how long it'll take to figure out whatever's going on with me."

"I don't like it," Dean growled. Understatement. "It's a bad idea."

"And we still have the portent to think about too. I'm not willing to take that chance."

Stubborn bastard would have to remember that. Dean didn't much care about his own safety at the moment; it would kill him if something happened to Sam anyway, so he figured that nullified the very unspecific threat to his own life. It wouldn't matter. Sam shifted yet again, turning toward him more and failing completely to disguise his exhaustion and the pain that moving caused.

"You know me, Sam, I'll be fine." Dean smiled cockily and Sam's returning look all but said 'bullshit, I know exactly what's going on in your head.' Discomfited, he cleared his throat and looked back out into the dark. "Sam, you can barely move. If we do try to finish this, just how are we going to do it?"

"I can still fire a gun."

"Hello. You weren't listening. You're not mobile enough." There still weren't any animal noises, which seemed very odd to him. Dean frowned. "Turning your head makes you shaky, you're not going to lift a shotgun and fire it."

"I can…" Sam stopped. Dean turned his attention back. Sam wouldn't meet his gaze. "I can be bait."

What the fuck? No.

"What the fuck? No. No way." That was insane. Sam was nuts if he thought Dean would go along with that. "Let's try we drive back there and you wait in the car while I handle them alone."

"Uh, no," Sam said. "One, that would pretty much constitute leaving me alone, which you so chivalrously declared not an option and two, no."

Dean glared. Sam glared back.

"It's always such drama with you, Sam," Dean said lightly, meaning it but not really. Sam looked confused for a second, which beat anger and pain as far as Dean was concerned, and then he just looked tired. "You know you're not going to win this argument."

"So, what, we're going to be joined at the hip from now on?"

"If that's what it takes." Dean got to his feet and held out a hand. "Come on, tough guy, let's get you on your feet. If you can do that without looking like you're going to fall flat on your face, I'll think about letting you in on the hunt."

"Really?" Sam said.

"No."

Sam scowled, but took the offered hand. Dean did most of the work in getting his brother upright and once he was there, he swayed. Oh, hell, no, Sam was not hunting tonight. Sam moved like an old man around the car, like he was stiff and sore all over. Dean had seen that before. He narrowed his eyes. He didn't know how much of that could be attributed to CPR and how much was a result of the dreams. He trailed behind his brother, not wanting to coddle but definitely not ready to leave Sam's side completely. At the trunk, Sam stopped and leaned.

"You going to make this?"

"It's five more feet," Sam grumbled. "Of course I will."

Dean thought Sam didn't even realize he was once again rubbing at his chest, and he couldn't hold back a snort. He passed by Sam and opened the passenger door. Sam rolled his eyes when he finally made it there, but climbed in and made no move to shut the door himself. Dean slammed it shut and then trotted over to the other side of the car. Things were still too quiet for his liking. He'd relax only when they were safely in the hotel, which they'd go to after a short stop at the trap site. He no sooner started the car than Sam started talking again.

"So what are we going to do?"

"Sam, you said it yourself. We can't let these things keep attacking people. I have to hope Bobby's right and take care of the problem myself. It'll only take a minute. You should be okay for that long, right?"

Dean turned the car around and headed back down the road, as if decisive action would make Sam just go along with the flow. He should have known better.

"You know you have to get both of them in the circle, and you know they split up to hunt," Sam said. "I don't know how you're going to do that and be able to spring the trap. Put me in the circle to draw them both in – " Dean started to rebut, but Sam hurried on before he could, "with a shotgun, of course, and you'll be free to get them."

Sam was a lunatic.

"That's not a good idea. What if it doesn't work? You're not going to be able to get out of there."

"You just said we needed to put faith in Bobby's plan."

"I said hope, and I only meant it when I was the only one involved."

"Dean, you know you can't do this on your own. I feel okay enough for this now – the painkillers have kicked in. And at least this way I'll always be in your line of sight…and you in mine. I mean, what if it goes down bad and I'm just sitting here? You'll be wounded or dead and I'll fall into a dream and no one will be here to pull me out."

That was valid, Dean supposed. Fucked up, but valid. And Sam managed that whole speech without gasping for breath, which was a good thing. He'd hunted with cracked ribs once or twice himself, and knew it could be done. It just really sucked. He pulled the car onto the shoulder and turned off the engine. He wouldn't look at Sam, but it didn't matter; Dean knew his brother was giving him puppy-dog eyes. The situation sucked no matter which way they went.

"I don't like this."

"I don't either."

"Let's do it, then."

He let Sam get himself out of the car, though he kept a close eye on the slow progress. Sam had to know that Dean had no intention of letting him limp around alone and let some ravenous, supernatural gigandogs have a go at him. Someone had to pull the rope and ring the bells, and that could be done from a more secure position. Dean popped the trunk and propped open the weapons compartment.

"I'll go out. You take cover over there." Dean quickly loaded two shotguns, handing one and some extra shells to Sam. He grabbed a pistol for himself as well. "As soon as the things are within the perimeter we set up, pull the rope. I should be able to handle the rest."

Sam's skin still looked ghostly pale in the weak light of the moon, and he didn't issue any protest. He didn't like the pallor, but was glad for the acquiescence. Dean tilted his head slightly and tried to discern any clue that the Black Dogs were even prowling this area, but everything remained quiet. He didn't feel an overwhelming sense of dread like he had before, but he figured the replay of Sam sprawled out and lifeless going on in his head was disguising anything the Dogs might be doing in that regard. He patted Sam's shoulder and nodded toward the cover spot. Sam gave him a tight-lipped smile and shuffled away quietly. Dean stashed his weapons out of sight and started walking. He didn't move stealthily.

It didn't take long. After only a minute or two, Dean knew at least one of them was behind him. He casually looked around to see if he could spot the other. It was too dark out. He kept going, making sure to lead the stalking one into the trap. Every fiber of his being was now focused on not turning around and shooting at the thing.

"Come on, come on," he said under his breath. "Come on out, you bastards."

His words seemed to prompt the one behind him into action. Dean turned just in time to see the thing's massive paw clawing at him. He awkwardly drew out the shotgun and hit the dirt, rolling out of the path and then back onto his feet. Snarling, the beast charged again, and Dean danced again. Shooting at it wouldn't help until it was grounded. Like magic, the disharmonious sound of cowbells filled the air. He knew the second one must be close.

"Dean, get down," Sam called.

He crouched, figuring Sam had a good reason to give away his position. He didn't take his eyes off of the first Dog. He aimed and fired at it. Missed. Damn thing moved fast. Even though blood was rushing in his ears and the Dog was growling louder than ever, Dean heard Sam moving out of cover. He dodged another attack and hoped to bloody hell that the other Dog wasn't right on top of him. Sam got off a shot, and he heard a canine yelp. Good, good boy. Unfortunately, whatever'd just happened out of his range of vision had pissed off the one having a go at him

The Dog finally landed a swipe, and it was a strong one. Dean went flying, already knowing it was going to hurt like hell to land. His head smacked against the ground, and he saw stars that weren't natural celestial bodies. A great weight pressed on his left thigh and he struggled to re-aim his weapon at the brute creature. It batted at his head once, he heard a loud roar and then the great weight shifted to his chest.

"Needs…more…cowbell," Dean tried to shout, and then there was nothing.


	9. Chapter 9

_Weaver, chapter 9_

Sam knew the adrenaline could fade fast, and he hurried over to his brother's side. He hoped like hell the Dog was down for good, and that Dean was just pinned by it and unable to move, not motionless because of some other reason. He reloaded the shotgun just in case, clicking the barrel back in place just as he reached the gruesome scene. The creature had fallen right on top of Dean, its giant head covering most of his torso. He needed to get that thing off, the sooner the better. He poked at it with the barrel of the gun, and got no reaction. Dean still didn't move.

"Dean?" he said, and almost wished this _was_ a dream. "Hey."

He intended to ease down to his knees, but just sort of collapsed to them instead. The Black Dog had to weigh over two hundred pounds, and could very well be squeezing the air right out of Dean's lungs. Sam set the shotgun down and rubbed his adrenaline-clammy hands down the front of his jeans. His muscles were already starting to return to their previous shaky state. He looked at Dean all limp and quiet, and a small resurgence of adrenaline hit him. He shoved at the Dog, the action pulling at his already sore ribs. He managed to roll it off to the side and immediately turned his attention to Dean.

The shotgun lay across Dean's chest, and there was blood everywhere. Sam couldn't see any evidence of new injury, which he hoped meant the slick wetness covering Dean's shirt was from the Dog. The scratches on the jaw had reopened, but that was it. He could see Dean breathing. He reached out, pulled the gun away and then slapped Dean's face gently. At first, Dean's head just lolled, but then he started to show signs of waking. Sam sagged down off his knees and onto his butt. He switched to shaking Dean's shoulder, until he saw Dean open his eyes a crack.

"You okay?" he said.

"I think." Dean furrowed his eyebrows. "But I'm not really sure I know what happened."

"You shot it while it was on top of you." Sam jutted his jaw toward the corpse. "They're both dead."

It occurred to Sam that he hadn't actually checked the one he'd shot, but it hadn't moved. Dean sat up, picking at his shirt with a disgusted expression on his face. Then he looked at the dead Black Dog and his expression got even more disgusted. He rubbed the back of his head and confusion mingled with the disgust.

"I did."

"Yeah. Good thing, too, because I didn't have much of a shot from where I was."

"So it worked?" Dean said, sounding a little too relieved for Sam's liking. He raised his eyebrows. Dean automatically sat up straighter. "Of course it did; Bobby's the man."

"Bobby's the man," Sam repeated. Dean continued to rub at the nape of his neck. "You sure you're all right?"

"Just hit my head, no big deal."

Sam relaxed, but he was starting to feel like crap again. If he thought about it, he'd felt like crap for a solid week. Tired despite sleeping, listless. All signs he really shouldn't have ignored, because in the back of his mind he'd known. He decided not to aggravate Dean by admitting that. First things first. The actual hunt might be over, but there were still things to be done. He eyed the corpses, surprised they hadn't vanished like so many supernatural beings seemed to do.

"Do you think we should dispose of the bodies?"

"We can't burn them, it's too dry out here." Dean chewed on his lip for a second. He sounded tired, and stood up slowly. "I'll go get a shovel."

"Maybe it can wait until morning."

Sam wanted to get it over with, but he wasn't sure he'd make it back to the car without feeling like passing out. He didn't think Dean was really up for digging a hole big enough for the Dogs, either. A few hours of rest would do them both good, and if not rest, then at least painkillers. He was just bruised, but it hurt like hell nonetheless.

"What difference would that make?"

"I could probably help then."

Dean looked down at him skeptically. Sam took a deep breath just to show Dean he wasn't going to double over in pain or anything. It was just another kind of discomfort he was already so used to again, one of many things he was growing accustomed to in his new-again lifestyle. He'd get over the weakness. He just needed some time. He reached up a hand, and Dean not only gave him that but also an arm around his shoulders and a whole lot of pull. Dean didn't even think about it, and Sam fought the instinct to shrug off the help in an unspoken "I'm fine."

"You're still going to be sore."

"Yeah, I know, but that's not the point." He'd be much better in a few hours. He would. "Do you really feel up to digging a hole right now?"

Dean didn't say anything, but his jaw clenched in classic annoyance. Sam sighed.

"Look, man, I'm not maligning your manhood. I just want some more damn Tylenol or something."

"Maligning? Why can't you ever talk like a normal human being?" Dean gave him a flip smile. "It seems to me you're _maligning_ your own manhood, which you don't really have to do around me, Sammy. I already know you're a pansy, you don't have to testify."

Obnoxious as it was Sam was glad for the abuse. It beat the overt worrying and pacing Dean had done before. He doubted this was going to go down like any other hunt. It was far too personal, but if they could keep each other from getting too weirded out, then that would only help them figure it all out. Sam snorted.

"Okay, I'm a pansy who needs more than Tylenol. Dude, I feel like I sprained my whole body."

"Ouch." Dean lost a little of his flippancy, and he leaned over for both shotguns. He winced when he stood, the only evidence Sam was going to get that his brother wasn't one hundred percent either. "I really need a shower anyway. Blood itches when it dries. We'll want to get back here before sunrise, though."

"Someone might spot the bodies and call wildlife," Sam said, nodding.

"I'd prefer the things on our asses be demonic in nature."

Oddly, Sam actually couldn't agree more with that statement. Not so oddly, he thought. If he stood any chance of getting back to school, he had to keep his name as clear as possible. He had to keep his fake names as clear as possible, too. The moral difficulty of being a con artist was as painful for him now as it ever had been as a kid. He didn't know how Dean just accepted it. Sam shook his head, not sure where the tangent had come from. Gravel crunched beneath their feet as they walked slowly toward the car, a familiar, resonant sound.

"Gimme the keys," Sam said after Dean had stowed the weapons. "I think I should drive."

"With cracked ribs?" Dean frowned at him. "I don't think so. Not my car."

"Bruised. And, Dean, if I sit down right now and don't have something to focus on, I'm going to fall asleep."

"Oh," Dean said, and gave him the keys without further ado. "Right."

And that right there reminded Sam that no matter how blasé Dean acted, he was not okay with any of this. Not just about the dreams of late, but the very idea Sam was different. He felt displaced in all aspects of his life. His intention might be to return to a safe life once they found their dad and the demon was dead, but how could he really do that as this freak who sometimes saw things before they happened? He had to stop losing himself in these thoughts.

They climbed into the car and fell into the post-hunt routine, just a fraction more tensely than usual. There were things they needed to discuss, though neither of them wanted to. Now that it was more than suspicion he was being preyed on, Sam tried to think of beings that could potentially control or feed off of dreams. He came up empty, except for…_One, two, Freddy's coming for you._ He gave a small laugh, just as he pulled the car up in front of the motel door.

"What the hell could you possibly find funny right now?" Dean said, breaking the silence Sam hadn't even realized they'd held during the ride.

"Nothing, just…" Sam opened the door and slid carefully out of the door. Dean did, too, and they walked to the motel in synch, his brother slowing down to keep snail's pace with him. The necessity of keeping upright and stiff had been exhausting. He pressed his fingers against his sternum and winced. "I just had a thought. It's stupid. But what if Freddy Krueger were real, somehow?"

Sam started laughing softly again, almost happy when doing so made a wave of pain ripple through him. The ache, in his chest at least, kept him awake. Without it, he'd just be too exhausted to function at all. It wasn't really funny, though, the Freddy Krueger thing. The means might be different with the demon – he wasn't being hacked to pieces or anything – but the end result seemed to be the same. There might come a dream he'd never wake from, no matter how hard Dean tried to make that happen.

"That's not exactly hilarious, Sam." Dean glared at him as he made a beeline for the bathroom. He didn't shut the door all the way.

"It is a little," Sam said toward the cracked door, but then his chuckles faded. "Our lives are like one never-ending horror movie."

Dean didn't answer. Probably couldn't hear through the noise of the shower. Sam headed for the coffee maker. He wasn't convinced keeping himself caffeinated would help that much, but right now it seemed the best option. Once he got a fresh pot brewing, he turned his attention to the computer and began the search. He set up the laptop on the table instead of sprawling on the bed. He stared at the screen so long he forgot to blink, trying various key words. He came up pretty much empty, and he wondered what the chances were that they were dealing with something undocumented anywhere. It didn't seem very likely to him. He just wasn't going about it the right way, but his brain seemed fuzzy.

He gave up the computer and decided to try to sketch the thing he kept seeing in his dreams. Maybe leaf through their dad's journal to see if anything sparked recognition. Sam closed his eyes for a second, conjuring up an image of the recurrent female figure. As always, she looked familiar. He opened his eyes and grabbed a small notepad out of the journal. He wasn't a great artist, but he managed to rough out a decent etching of what his memory supplied.

"Dude, why are you doodling a picture of Bloody Mary?"

He jumped, heart pounding. Dean stood right behind him, already dressed and his face was rebandaged. Sam hadn't even heard the shower stop. Dean peered over his shoulder with an odd expression on his face. Sam looked back down at the notepad. It _did_ look like Bloody Mary. He frowned. He should have made that connection a long time ago. It was obvious enough now.

"I…this is…"

"Hey, relax and spit it out, Sam," Dean said, pulling the other chair out and sitting down. "This is what?"

"This is who I eventually saw in my dreams."

Dean raised his eyebrows. Sam toyed with the corners of the notepad, folding the paper up slightly. He dropped the pen, let it roll across the table.

"That doesn't make any sense. She's gone. It can't be her. And even if it could, she wasn't the type to mess with dreams."

"I know all that. But it's her."

"You said eventually."

It was impossible. Sam's stomach felt cold, and his throat burned with it, as if he'd just swallowed a large ice cube. Whatever plagued his dreams also toyed with him. It fed him horrible images of Dean getting hurt or dying and disguised itself to boot. The information was not going to help them figure things out. If anything, it set them back.

"Sam?"

"Oh. Hmm?"

"Who did you see in the dreams before Bloody Mary? Maybe that's where you need to focus."

"At first, it was…" Dean tilted his head. Sam cringed. "It was Jess."

Dean mirrored his cringe, and Sam concentrated on toying with the notepad's edges again. They just sat there for a minute or two.

"Okay, so what does this mean?" Dean sounded as unflappable as ever. Sam looked up. His brother's eyes gave it all away, though, and so did the fact he averted his gaze the second Sam made eye contact. "It's just another thing it can do. We already know it manipulates."

"Yeah." Did they? Frankly, Sam was no longer sure of anything. He was afraid he could be dreaming at this very moment. "Maybe. It seems to be able to get in my head somehow."

"So we look up demons associated with sleep. And mind control. There has to be a connection somewhere."

He'd already searched. He didn't stop Dean from sliding the laptop over. Sam didn't think he could do much of anything, actually. He had an overwhelming sense that they were screwed, and it wasn't a good feeling. He stood up and started pacing, stopping only long enough to get himself a cup of coffee. He poured one for Dean, too, and stuck it on the table. Sam's mind raced to nowhere.

"You don't really think that, do you?" Dean said suddenly, eyes focused only on the computer.

"Think what?" Sam said.

"What you said before. That our lives are an unending horror movie. Because they're not."

Sam sat down again, hard. Coffee sloshed out of the cup onto his hand, hot but not scalding. Dean's voice was low and careful. Sam rubbed his coffee-damp hand down his face, pinched his nose to ward off a headache that hadn't started yet but probably would soon.

"We go from place to place fighting evil things most people don't believe in, and most of the ones who do only believe because it's happened to them. That seems like horror to me."

"There's a difference you're overlooking," Dean said, leaning toward him with eyes narrowed and dark. "We don't get dead like they do in the movies."

Dean said it more like a desperate vow than a statement of fact. Sam didn't want to tell his brother that he'd always thought the real horror, even in movies, was left to those who survived the monsters.


	10. Chapter 10

_Weaver, chapter 10_

"It's starting to look like our best bet is some kind of succubus." Sam looked horrified. And a lot more horrible than Dean had thought. Damn, the dark circles under the eyes had resurfaced fast. No, they hadn't actually gone away. "Maybe not in the traditional sense, though. We could be dealing with something that's adapted different behaviors, something that feeds off dreams instead of…"

"Sex," Sam finished hoarsely. He looked a little like he was going to puke, and his already pale face became more ashen. Sam nodded once, but it didn't seem like affirmation. "That doesn't make me feel much better."

"It shouldn't," Dean said. He shifted in his seat. He didn't exactly like the conclusion, either. Sex was real, a physical act committed by physical beings. Dreams weren't. Fighting an incorporeal entity with a shotgun and holy water wasn't really feasible. "We'd know how to get rid of a regular succubus. With this, I don't even know where to start."

Sam leaned back and tilted his face toward the ceiling. Dean looked around the small diner. It wasn't the best place for this kind of conversation, but they'd both agreed bars and beers weren't a good combination in light of the no sleep rule. It bothered him a whole hell of a lot that they'd had over twenty-four hours to research and they hadn't made much progress. It had been thirty-six hours since either of them had slept. All things considered, they were holding up all right, but he knew neither of them could sustain staying awake for more than three days and not have their skills compromised.

"I don't either, man, but we have to figure this out soon." Sam looked back down at him, pushing his plate toward the middle of the booth. Sam might as well have admitted he was struggling, Dean thought uneasily. "But right now I have to pee. All this damn coffee."

Sam slid out of the booth. Dean started to do the same, stopping when Sam cleared his throat. He glanced up.

"What're you doing?" Sam said.

"I'm coming with you."

"I appreciate the caution, but I think you can trust me to pee all by myself, Dean."

He shrugged his shoulders and slid back to his original position. Maybe he was carrying it a bit too far, but he didn't like leaving Sam for more than a few minutes at a time. Dean checked his watch, then watched Sam's progress toward the men's room. So he was an overprotective son of a bitch. He could not take reviving Sam again. Well, he could and he would…but the thought made him feel cold and scared inside. He did not like those feelings. At all. The waitress blocked his view for a minute as she paused by their booth and topped off his and Sam's coffee cups. He lifted the cup and drank automatically, eyes still trained on the men's room door.

He spared a moment's glance at his watch. He was about to invade his brother's independence, not to mention his privacy, when the door finally opened and Sam emerged. Dean tried really hard not to let it show, but he was seriously creeped out by the thought of some demon mindfucking Sam at every opportunity. It was hard to keep his mask in place when Sam's differentness made him such an easy target. His brother's _skills_ had probably opened him wide up for the attack, and once the demon had latched on it didn't look like it was going anywhere anytime soon.

"Hey, you ready to go?" Sam said.

Dean nodded. Back to the road. Winnemucca was a couple hours behind them. They had buried the Black Dog carcasses and, with the threat to the town gone, there wasn't reason to stick around. In his mind, there was reason to leave – they'd have better resources for research about their latest problem and medical care in an actual city instead of a dusty speck on the map. He'd semi-consciously started driving back east without even asking Sam. West might have taken them too close to Palo Alto, and Sam didn't need bad memories on top of bad dreams. Since Sam hadn't objected, Dean figured Salt Lake City would do as a destination point.

"You feeling all right?"

"Tired and wired." Sam gave him a small smile. "You?"

"Could be worse," Dean said.

And it probably would be soon. He tossed Sam the car keys. Driving might give at least one of them loud music, open windows and the road to concentrate on, and right now Sam looked like he needed it more. Dean probably looked like ass himself, but he knew he'd be able to outlast Sam. It had only been a week since his brother had started looking exhausted more often than not (and now Dean wondered if Sam had ever not, or if he'd just wanted to believe things were okay), but a week of bad sleep didn't take long to make an impact.

"Your turn to drive. My turn to pee."

Sam rolled his eyes. Dean headed for the men's room, a little more assured that Sam wouldn't go all unconscious on him now that he'd been reminded he was hovering too much. And Sam had proven he could last two minutes out of Dean's sight. Shit, he really was a mother hen. He peed fast. Sam was leaning on the car, face turned to the sun with eyes closed, when Dean pushed through the diner door. His gut gave him that old feeling again. He made it over to Sam in under three seconds, grabbing his brother's arm tightly.

"Holy shit!" Sam said, jerking upright and away from Dean. "What?"

Damnit. Dean couldn't come up with any way that would effectively mask his actions or his concern. Sam gawked at him for an awkward moment.

"What, what?" Dean said.

Really, he shouldn't have to explain. It took only a second for Sam to don an understanding expression. It occurred to him, way too late, that a small hospital in a small town was better than no hospital in the middle of nowhere and they were taking a pretty big risk. If Sam _had_ been sleeping and if Sam _had_ stopped breathing…but Sam hadn't and Dean didn't want to go down that road. A far more productive use of his time was to concentrate on the actual road.

"Sorry," Sam said.

"Let's just go."

They rode in silence for a while. Dean fidgeted around a bit, alert from the caffeine bolting through his bloodstream and by the latent presence of fear he'd probably maintain until they figured this thing out. No matter how he wracked his brain, he couldn't discern a viable way to fight this kind of demon, presupposing they were dealing with a succubus with bonus dream powers. At least not a viable way he really wanted to try.

"Y'know, Dean, I was thinking," Sam said hesitantly. Oh, great. "It might be possible to starve the demon. It feeds on dreams, probably, right? If I don't give it dreams for long enough, it could weaken and die off."

Dean nodded and glanced over, eyes locking on Sam's hands on the steering wheel. They no longer shook, but gripped the wheel tightly enough to whiten the knuckles. He took that as a sign of Sam's struggle to concentrate. He clenched his jaw. If he was right, Sam shouldn't be driving and yet the alternative wasn't really an alternative, either. Sam had a point, though, and Dean had considered it before.

"We have no idea how long that would take. Lack of sleep might kill you before you can kill the demon. Besides, if it goes without for long enough it might just seek out another host with interesting dreams to munch on," Dean said, and as he did so he realized the futility of their current strategy.

There had been several reports, nationwide, of people who had normally healthy spouses or friends or whatever who'd suddenly started exhibiting the same signs Sam had presented: unexplained fatigue with rapid onset, severe sleep apnea. Despite seeking medical treatment, all those people had died, most of them during an episode of "apnea." This thing was mobile and strong enough to suck the life out of people even when they were in the hospital, even when they were hooked up to machines designed to jumpstart breathing action when it ceased. And the fact that the potential victims had been scattered all across the country was pretty damned disturbing in its own right. This thing could go anywhere and get anyone.

"If that's true, then that means I'm going to have to sleep soon. We can't let it attack someone else."

Ah, the same conundrum they'd faced with the Black Dogs. Dean hated it, but Sam was right. He thought he'd drawn the same conclusion a while ago and hadn't wanted to face it. He clenched his jaw. The thought of willingly allowing Sam to venture into a dreamscape that had already nearly killed him terrified Dean to no end.

"No, we can't," Dean said. "And yes, you are."

This was a fight for Sam alone, unless there was a way for Dean to join his brother's dreams. He didn't do this mystical shit. Give him a flesh and bone demon any day of the week, and the guns, machetes or fire to kill it. Physical things. He couldn't reiterate that enough. He tossed around the idea of calling their father again.

"Oh." Sam didn't sound nearly as freaked out as he should have, instead was almost stupefied. Dean looked at his brother, whose jaw was set in that way meant to portray determination, but was something else entirely. Maybe Sam was scared. "Maybe we should stop at the next town."

"Why is that?"

"So I can sleep, make sure this thing doesn't get the chance to go for anyone else," Sam said, shifting a quick glance over to him. His brother appeared more and more ragged around the edges, and might just want rest. "Keep it with me."

Dean's gut screamed no, his head knew Sam's idea had merit. If they were even close to right about this, then they'd made a mistake leaving Winnemucca. Salt Lake City was still a hell of a drive away, and he doubted the next town they encountered would be any bigger than Winnemucca. It would probably be smaller. Most of the counties they were driving through only had one town equipped with medical facilities.

"I…"

"You'll be right there." Sam cut him off, speaking quickly. "Now at least we know it happens fast, in real time anyway. It might not be bad if you catch it right away. You should probably get some rest now. This could get ugly."

Déjà vu. Sam was getting damned bossy. Dean frowned at his brother's profile, as if doing that could possibly help him understand what was going on in Sam's mysterious brain.

"Okay, bossy," Dean said. "What I was going to say is that we should see if the next town has a hospital or clinic first. We're not getting stuck in a town without one, even if we can handle most medical issues ourselves."

He shouldn't have to say it. Unnecessary risk was not his bag, though Dean was starting to think that it might be Sam's just like it sometimes was their father's. While he'd normally be happy to find traits linking Sam and their dad, that one was not on the top of the list. They wouldn't think twice about getting themselves killed if it meant taking out the demon that had killed Mom and Jess, and Dean knew that. But that wasn't the only thing they were careless about. He supposed he wasn't that much different, only his motivations were about more human things.

"Oh," Sam said again.

"How are your ribs, by the way?" A not-so-subtle change in topic seemed a good idea. "Need more painkillers yet?"

"No, I'm okay."

Dean doubted that, but it wasn't really the time or place to disagree. It was a moot point anyway. Fine or not fine now, chances were things would get worse. He stared out the window. The sun started to peek up over the horizon already. Daylight should make it a little bit easier to stay alert. He closed his eyes briefly to alleviate the dryness. His head spun, symptomatic of his own fatigue.

"I really do think you should sleep," Sam said. "You look like crap."

"Thanks." Dean opened his eyes, eyelids clicking slightly. "Seen yourself lately?"

"Fine, be a stubborn bastard."

"All right then."

Sam couldn't really expect him to just doze off and leave him unprotected. Dean was tired enough that he couldn't rely on an internal clock to wake him up after twenty minutes. It wasn't a chance he could take. Sam pushed the car faster and turned up the music. It was Zeppelin. _Stairway to Heaven._ Dean jerked upright and hit the fast forward button.


	11. Chapter 11

_Weaver, chapter 11_

Dean fidgeted some more and ejected the Zeppelin tape in favor of Kansas, not either of their first choices. His brother had apparently forgotten his own rule about who picked the music, but Sam didn't really care. He wasn't really listening to the music anyway. There was too much blood rushing in his ears, and too many thoughts about what exactly might happen when he slept again. He knew what. Kansas was rapidly swapped out for AC/DC. He thought maybe Dean kept messing with the tape deck so he'd stay awake.

"I'm just not sure," Sam blurted, surprising himself.

"About what?"

"What I'm supposed to do when I'm dreaming, or how I'm supposed to even know I'm dreaming. I've never been able to tell before."

It was a big flaw in the plan, if they could call it a plan. He knew him going to sleep had to happen, and he knew Dean had his back, but Sam was as scared as he'd ever been. He'd do what it took. He wasn't afraid of dying. He was afraid of dying before he had the chance to find Jessica's killer. He could not die here. He just didn't know how many times he could be revived.

"You know there are no easy answers," Dean said, strained. This was probably as hard on Dean as him. In some ways harder, Sam thought. "It might take you a couple tries before we…you…figure anything out. Maybe you can out think it."

"Out think it." He'd always suspected Dean was a little nuts. "It's a demon."

"Dude, we out think demons all the time."

"Well, I do anyway," Sam said.

Dean smacked him on the shoulder. Sam ducked in reaction, regretting it when the tender throb of his ribs turned to more severe pain. For a second he couldn't seem to catch his breath, which was odd because he really had been feeling better. He frowned. These were familiar feelings.

"Dean, pinch me," he said with a gasp.

"What?"

The same hand that had smacked him now latched onto his shoulder. Sam kept his eyes on the road, concentrating on staying between the yellow and white lines. It was harder than it should have been.

"Pinch me. I need to know if I'm awake."

"You're awake. I'm not letting you fall asleep when you're driving my car."

"Just do it, okay?"

"Okay." Dean moved his hand down and grabbed an inch of bicep, squeezing tightly. "But you're crazy, you know."

"Ow."

That should have reassured him, but he still couldn't breathe very well. Dean leaned closer to him, bringing his face right up next to Sam's. Sam tried to regulate his breathing, but no matter what he did he couldn't quite get enough useable air into his lungs. Tiny dark spots flitted across his vision, and he slowed the car and drove it onto the shoulder. He put it in park. This didn't make sense. There was nothing…he looked at Dean, recoiled when he saw his brother's eyes had been replaced by swirling black.

"Of course you realize that even if you were dreaming, you could just dream me pinching you," Dean said with casual charm, but it wasn't quite Dean's voice.

"Dean…" he said uneasily, though he suspected it wasn't really his brother.

"Sam!"

He started shaking uncontrollably, violently. Another memorable sensation. Sam watched Dean's face morph into something else, skin tone changing color to pale blue-grey. He tried to recoil, but couldn't.

"Sam, snap out of it."

Dean sounded like Dean, and he sounded like he knew what he was talking about, so Sam did. Well, he didn't snap so much as groggily surface. It was déjà vu all over again. Dean was practically on top of him. Sam lifted his head slowly, shifted his body. His left knee connected with something hard. He blinked and looked down blearily. He was still behind the steering wheel…oh, shit.

"Oh, shit," he choked out.

"You can say that again," Dean said gruffly, like he was angry, but Sam knew better.

Sam sat up straighter, wincing. The jarring motion Dean had just unleashed on him had reawakened the pain. He'd lied before about not needing painkillers, and now he needed them even more. Sam glanced around. Somehow Dean had managed to get the car off the highway and onto the side of the road.

"I don't understand. I was driving. I wasn't…I didn't go to sleep."

"Yeah, well, beg to differ." Dean relaxed slightly and moved out of Sam's space. "One second I'm looking for new music, the next the car's veering off the road and you're zoned."

Dean's jaw clenched three or four times in succession. That was bad. Very, very bad. Sam shook his head. It was possible the succubus or whatever the hell it was somehow knew they were on to it, and it had changed its MO, but Sam couldn't quite make himself believe that it wouldn't simply escape and find a new dreamer to feed off of. Part of him wondered if it was bound to the host until it was all over. He shivered. And if the car had crashed…

"I could have killed you," Sam said. "God."

He fumbled for the door handle. It took him several attempts before he managed to get the door open, and then he half slid, half stumbled from behind the wheel. The morning air was cool, and with the adrenaline now coursing through him, helped clear his head. Sort of. He walked to the front of the car and slouched down on the hood. Dean wasn't far behind him, sitting next to him.

"Me? It's not me you should be worried about, Sammy," Dean said softly and slapped him on the arm just as softly. "Come on, get back in the car. We should keep going."

Just like that, Dean was able to shake it off and get back on track. Sam wished he could do the same. They were in the middle of nowhere, and now this thing could happen at any time, whether he was awake or asleep. He had no control. He didn't know how they'd ever thought he'd be able to fight it within the dreams. Dean stood up and started around to the driver's side.

"Dean," he said. "Aren't you scared?"

Sam expected the pat "no" answer to roll off his brother's tongue. He looked up when no response at all came, and caught Dean staring at him. His eyes weren't swirling and black, but they were still haunted. Then Dean gave him a lopsided, unhappy smile.

"Of course I am." Funny how the truth didn't make Sam feel any better. "But fear won't get us anywhere. Come on. Get in the car."

For a panicky second, Sam thought he could be dreaming again. There was no transition with this, no skittering or overlaying of reality and vision, no headache. He searched Dean's face, looking for any clue it wasn't really him. Dean raised his eyebrows and gesticulated for him to get in the car already. Sam eased off the hood and walked over to the passenger door. Even if he was dreaming, there wasn't much else he could do.

"Don't worry, Sam. I'm not going to let you sleep until we're in a more controlled environment."

Sam swore Dean had told him that before, but he didn't know if it had been during a dream or in reality. Either way, the reassurance wasn't anything more than words; he didn't think Dean had the power to prevent him from sleeping. It was almost like the demon was aware of what went on while he wasn't dreaming, and was exerting more influence on him. If that were true, he couldn't really bring it up to Dean, who might not be Dean anyway and even if he was the demon succubus thing was listening in so it wasn't like it could be a secure conversation. God, he was going crazy. Sam ran a hand through his hair and slid into the car gently. He looked at Dean and then looked away. And then did it again.

"Spit it out," Dean said as he rolled the car back onto the highway.

"What?"

"I need to know every detail upfront from now on, Sam."

"I'm just not sure," Sam said, repeating the words he'd spoken in his dream. He shouldn't have. They just made him doubt even more what was real. "What if it could know what we talk about somehow?"

"What would make you think that?"

"I…" Sam cleared his throat. He held out his left arm. "Hey, Dean. Pinch me."

"I'm not pinching you, freak," Dean said, no hesitation. As soon as he heard that, Sam knew that was exactly what Dean was supposed to say. "Pinch yourself. You're awake."

"That's what you said the last time," Sam said with a mildly hysterical laugh. "But then you weren't you."

"Tell me what that means, Sammy."

He had to keep track of the Sammys, he thought. The more often Dean used that stupid nickname, the more concerned he was. If life were a poker game, Dean's tell would be obvious to any idiot. He closed his eyes briefly. Again, he had no choice. He was almost sure he was, in fact, awake, but even if he wasn't, there wasn't much else he could do. He just had to be and hope that was right.

"I think it makes dreams fluid with reality so I have no way of knowing when it's all going to hell. It's like a shock. It must thrive on that more than the dreams themselves."

"And…"

"And this time it used your face instead of Bloody Mary's. Or it would have if you hadn't woken me up. It was so real until it wasn't."

"This just keeps getting better and better," Dean said.

It felt to Sam as though the demon was accelerating its attacks the same way Dean stepped on the gas and drove that much harder. That made sense to him, the only thing that did amid the confusion in his brain. None of the reports had given any clue that the victims had suspected what was really happening to them. It was possible the demon hadn't revealed itself to them or it did and they didn't put the pieces together.

"I still don't know what exactly I'm supposed to do while I am dreaming, especially if I still don't know that I am. I haven't got any useful information so far."

"That's what I want."

Sam wasn't sure he'd heard that right. His heart started racing anyway, and his skin prickled. He stole a look at Dean, hoping to observe his brother unnoticed. Dean looked right back at him, ignoring the road. The gaze was suffocating, hypnotic. Dark. Sam tried to break eye contact and couldn't.

"Dean, uh, maybe you should watch the road," he said.

"Nah," Dean said, but Sam swore his lips didn't move. And then Sam couldn't move his lips, either. He could barely move anything. He couldn't breathe. "I don't think there'd be much fun in that. Sammy, you need a stronger sense of adventure."

Sam tore his eyes away from Dean's abnormally darkened orbs. It came out of nowhere, a large animal – deer? – and he tried to shout, to get whatever had taken his brother's place to stop the car or swerve or anythinganything but it was useless. The car impacted the animal at full speed and Sam was crushed against the dashboard. There were flashes of light and dark and chaos and he couldn't breathe. And then there was nothing at all.

_A/N: That's it for tonight. I'm exhausted after a long day of work - personally, I think work should be outlawed. Thank you for those who've given me reviews, they're lovely to hear! _


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Sorry – couldn't access anything last night (my computer acting up, not this site) or I would have been prompt with more chapters. We're on the home stretch now. Hopefully I don't screw this up, as I'm in a bit of a headache haze right now... ;)_

_Weaver, chapter 12_

The room didn't allow for much movement, but Dean managed to pace anyway. It seemed like he was forever pacing. It was all he could do, as if moving constantly would keep the bad things away. He'd known this was a terrible idea going in. Now he started to doubt it was even sane. Every time Sam went to sleep and dreamed, more and more strength was sapped out of him. So far Dean had managed to break his brother out of it immediately after he stopped breathing. Those were all small victories as far as he was concerned.

Sam was losing the war.

When awake, Sam had a pinched look around eyes that were dull and flat, and when asleep he looked lifeless even before he stopped breathing. Frankly, Dean didn't know how much more either of them could take. He suspected that for Sam, it was very little. He wasn't far behind.

"Dean," Sam said, sounding as wasted as he looked. Dean stopped pacing and glanced at his brother. "I don't think this is accomplishing anything."

Not for them, anyway, no. The dream succubus was making out like a bandit. Dean moved over and sat on the edge of the bed. He felt helpless, and he hated that he could only watch. He ran a hand through his hair, and then patted Sam on the knee. There wasn't much he could say. At this stage, words of encouragement would only be platitudes and they'd talked the subject to death anyway. Pun definitely not intended.

"It's keeping it interested in you," Dean said, pretending that was actually something to put on the positive side of the tally sheet that was otherwise very negative.

"Huh."

Sam gave a small laugh, not much more than a puff of air. Such a tiny noise, but it sounded loud. The toll on Sam wasn't purely physical. If it was just that, Dean thought he could handle it better, but Sam was also getting less lucid. As far as he could tell, Sam would say things that just didn't make sense, or laugh as if he found something that wasn't funny absolutely hysterical. He was kind of relieved he'd exercised brotherly discretion and had deemed all the small towns along the way inadequate, medically speaking, and pushed on to Salt Lake City. He tried not to think about it, but it was nice knowing backup was there if Sam needed it.

"I swear I already told you this, man, but I think it stays with someone until they die. No one else should be in danger while I'm still around for its amusement. Didn't I tell you that?" Sam said cheerfully. Case in point. Because it was really amusing to learn the only plausible way to get rid of a dream succubus was to let the dreamer die. Especially because the dreamer was Sam. "That's so funny."

"Yeah. I'm busting a gut." Dean shook Sam's knee. "I don't think that's the solution we're looking for in getting rid of this thing."

The bed jiggled as Sam leaned forward, pulling away from the headboard. He drew his knees up and swung his legs over the side until they were sitting shoulder to shoulder. Dean felt his brother quiver slightly, and knew the simple act of sitting up had required a lot more effort than it should have. God, he hated this. He avoided professional medical help wherever possible, but not for the first time, the temptation to drag his brother to a doctor cropped up.

"That isn't what I meant." Sam wasn't laughing anymore. "I don't want to die, Dean."

"Good to hear."

He was being sarcastic, but he was also genuinely relieved. Sometimes Sam could get a little reckless with his own life. Dean thought that had gotten better over the past few months. There would always be that underlying fear, because if there were one thing that linked their family besides blood, it would be their willingness to die, for either a cause or for other people. He thought knowing that trait about each other actually made them more diligent with each other's safety. At least that's what he told himself.

"It's too bad there's not a way for you to make your dreams more dreamlike, so you'd know," Dean said. He'd said that before. They both had. So far Sam hadn't been able to gain any control over his subconscious.

"Déjà vu." Sam bumped his leg against Dean's, then stood up and went to the coffeemaker. He poured himself a cup, but set it down again without taking a drink. "I knew this wasn't going to be easy, but I didn't know it was going to be this hard. I don't know…"

Dean felt like every nerve ending was frayed beyond repair, and he could only imagine what all this was doing to Sam. Beyond the obvious physical and psychological symptoms, so much more could be happening that he couldn't see. He knew forgetting that Sam was his brother would be the best thing to do, think of him as just a regular person who needed help. If he could do that, he might be able to reduce if not eliminate personal feelings. Their father could do it. Dean admired John Winchester as a hunter. Sometimes, though, he thought his father was a heartless bastard, and he couldn't let himself be that way. No. Sam was his brother, and that wasn't ever going to change.

"What can I do?" Dean said. "Tell me how to help you."

"You do it by waking me up, Dean. There's nothing more you can do." Sam sighed. "Want coffee?"

"Sure."

Sam brought him the cup he had poured for himself. Dean took a sip and looked over to the bedside clock. He couldn't remember if it was morning or night anymore. He'd mostly lost track of how long they'd been going on, keeping track only by the number of times Sam had fallen into a period of not breathing. Seven times. Didn't seem like a huge amount, but seven was so not a lucky number.

"Are you all right?" Sam said. "Because I have to say you stink and you look like crap."

"I'm tired, Sam, that's all. And you don't exactly smell good yourself."

Dean's head hurt from too much caffeine. He finished the coffee anyway, figuring at this point it might not help, but it couldn't hurt. He'd blown through the caffeine threshold a long time ago. Fear kept him awake now. Fear and thoughts he couldn't stop thinking. Nothing was going right. None of their father's friends had been able to provide a viable plan, though he knew none of them had stopped searching. Their father himself so far neglected to return the phone call Dean finally made to him.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm not trying hard enough to control what I dream about."

Dean hadn't ever said that. He didn't correct Sam. The more he mentioned Sam's slips between what had really happened and what was apparently from a dream, the more it agitated his brother. Dean hoped that was the right thing to do. He could just be making it more difficult for Sam.

"I thought we established that it couldn't really be done," Dean said. Seven times over, they'd established that. "Not to shoot you down or anything. You can't just think about lollipops and candy canes and expect to see them in your dreams."

Sam looked at him funny, sinking back down on the bed.

"You're right. But what if I try to dream about something that used to fill my nightmares? That started out as something else. Something that really happened."

Dean didn't like the sound of that. He knew what Sam was talking about, and those months after Jess's death had left his brother looking almost as bad as he did at the moment. If it went wrong and Sam couldn't control more than the dream's subject material, thing could skip right from bad to dead.

"I…"

"Think about it, Dean. I'll know it's a dream because I've had it a million times."

"It's used Jess before. Can you really be so sure you'll know what's going on?"

"No. Of course not, but neither has just falling to sleep with no plan."

Fair point.

"So you need to get in a Jess frame of mind," Dean said. Just when he'd thought this couldn't get any worse.

"That is the only thing about this that won't be a problem," Sam said. Dean turned to give his brother whatever non-verbal support he could and caught the tail end of a telling facial tick. "I don't need any help with that."

Dean couldn't find a way to respond that would be helpful in any way. He stood up so Sam could get comfortable on the bed. He wasn't ready for this himself, hoped like hell Sam knew what he was doing, even a little bit. This had the potential to go very wrong, and with their luck it probably would. Not that he didn't have faith in Sam – the guy was one stubborn SOB. No, his concern came more from the fact that they still knew basically nothing about the succubus. It held all the cards in this game.

"You ready?" Dean walked over and put the coffee cup down by the sink. "It hasn't been very long since the last time we tried."

"Waiting won't help." Sam sounded like he thought nothing would, which was not a good thing. "No, I'm as ready as ever."

Except more exhausted, sore and weak, Dean thought. He clenched his jaw. He wasn't helping Sam or himself by being so fatalistic. It was hard to change that attitude, knowing he was about to watch Sam sleeping. Sure, that didn't sound like such a terrible thing, but with each successive sleep session it became more like watching Sam die. His job there might be simple, but it sure as hell wasn't easy. And he sincerely doubted Sam was ready at all, despite the assurance that he was. He had an urge to tell Sam he'd be right there, even though that was obvious and one of the dumbest things he could say. God, Sam and his chick-flick tendencies were rubbing off on him way too much.

"Okay," Dean said.

He leaned on the counter. Dean had discovered after the third attempt that standing kept him alert and allowed him to get to Sam quicker when things went south. He drummed his fingers on his thigh and became watcher. He knew the second Sam was asleep, the muscles of his body tensing in an equal, opposite reaction to Sam's slackening ones. It was scary to see his brother so pale and still – worse than anything else he'd ever seen in his life, or at least that he could think of at the moment. He pushed himself away from the counter and started pacing alongside the bed, filled with all kinds of nervous energy.

One minute turned to two, then three. Dean frowned, stopped pacing and leaned over Sam. It usually only took a few minutes for Sam to exhale and then just not inhale again. He eyed Sam's chest as it rose and fell steadily, if shallowly. He reached out a hand, tempted to wake Sam even though there wasn't reason to yet. He could always make up a new time limit rule if Sam protested. Four minutes. Five.

It was different this time; he knew it in his bones. Dean felt a chill run through him.

Sam suddenly surged, chest heaving, off the bed and then fell down again. Dean jerked back, taken off guard as Sam continued to heave and gasp and shudder. _Shitohshit_, was all that went through Dean's head. He grabbed for Sam's shoulders and dug his fingers into them with all his might. The pain that had to have cost garnered no reaction. Sam's movements were quickly weakening, though, becoming more erratic while his attempts to breathe lingered.

"Sam, snap out of it," Dean said, the same words he'd said so often lately. "Come on, Sammy, don't pull this shit again."

His brother always was contrary. Instead of following Dean's order, Sam stopped moving, went completely limp. Dean's skin prickled, the chill he'd felt before tripling. He shook Sam, which only made a lifeless hand thump hollowly against the cheap hotel mattress. Last time Sam's heart stopped, it had nearly taken Dean too long to bring him back. Dean hadn't realized he had a definite line in the sand, but Sam was crossing it. He let go of his brother and reached for the phone. He'd hit nine and one before he realized Sam was scarily immobile, but was actually breathing. He put the receiver back down on the cradle.

"Okay. That's more like it."

Dean thought about letting Sam alone to sleep or dream some more, and then reconsidered. He didn't need Sam crossing that line again, and it was better safe than sorry. He shook his brother's shoulder to rouse him, gently this time. Sam tended to be pretty out of it when pulled from sleep on a good day, and now was just plain freaky, saying all sorts of strange things and making pain-filled grunts. Knowing what, in theory, Sam was dreaming about really wouldn't help with that.

"Hey, you can wake up now," Dean said.

But Sam didn't move, didn't make any of those sounds Dean hated. The silence was far worse. After ten minutes of trying to prod Sam awake, Dean reached for the phone again.


	13. Chapter 13

_Weaver, chapter 13_

Sam was so tired. Some small part of him had actually enjoyed being on the road with Dean, but mostly he was just glad to be home. The smell of fresh baking permeated the apartment and he had to smile. Dean had been right about one thing – sometimes Sam thought he really didn't deserve Jess. He'd ditched her for the weekend without explanation, and she still baked his favorite cookies. He took one and munched on it absently, then went off in search of Jess.

When he stepped through the bedroom doorway, Sam was hit with a tremendous sense of foreboding. He'd been here before, done all this. He tossed the remainder of the cookie on the nightstand and squinted around the room. Everything was exactly where it was supposed to be, but somehow nothing looked right. The shower was on. There were no splashing sounds and he knew that was right and so wrong as well.

A disparate, internal clanging reverberated through him. He remembered now. Sam struggled to wrap his head around the idea of finally being aware of his dream state, and tried to prepare himself for what he knew was coming. He did what he always did in the dream, mirroring what he had done in reality. He closed his eyes and fell down on the bed, and told himself it wasn't Jess up on the ceiling and it wasn't the memory of her either. If he could control the reactions he had every single time this played out in his brain, then maybe he'd have more success fighting the succubus.

Blood dripped on his forehead, one drop. Two. Sam pictured being out of his apartment, envisioned some place innocuous. An open field with short grass and yellow flowers, harmless blue skies. When he opened his eyes, that's what he would see, not Jess. Not again. It was his dream, his decision.

It didn't work that way. Jess was beautiful and grotesque, pinned above him with the expression on her face that would haunt him all the days of his life.

"No," Sam said. He surged up, unable to stop himself. "No, Jess!"

Jess laughed. The _succubus_ laughed. The room wasn't suddenly engulfed in flames and Dean didn't rush in and pull him from the fire. Sam choked, heart in his throat and pounding through his chest at the same time. Impossible. This was a dream, a dream. His dream, his decision. He closed his eyes and again tried to imagine a neutral dreamscape. It became more and more difficult for him to breathe, and he knew on some level that Dean would wake him up at any moment.

_"Come on, Sammy, don't pull this shit again,"_ Dean's voice said, terse, disembodied and hollow.

Dean. Sam reopened his eyes, and found his brother wasn't there. The succubus, still in Jess' form, hovered right above him, eyes swirling darkness. He tried to surge up again, buck away from the thing, but he couldn't. He wondered why Dean hadn't pulled him out of this horror.

"Oh, he can't," the creature said pleasantly. "Not this time. This time, you're mine."

Sam wilted against the mattress as Jess pressed so close her nightgown brushed against him. She never wore nightgowns. The succubus even manipulated scents. Jess smelled as good as she ever had, fresh and clean. He buried his head deeper into the pillow, turned his face away. He took shallow breaths, finding he could actually breathe more easily that way. In a situation where he didn't have much control, something that small was huge. Jess stroked a finger along his jaw line.

"Stop it."

"Aww." Not Jess. Not…it blew in his ear. "Don't you miss me at all?"

"Stop using her face," Sam said. "You've got me, right? You don't need tricks anymore."

It didn't answer him, and for several minutes Sam simply lay there with his face averted. He focused on keeping his breaths shallow and even, because he knew as long as he could still breathe he was okay. He relaxed, but not completely, and attempted again to make the dreamscape change. When he was a kid, they'd stayed in a small town in Michigan long enough for him to start to enjoy it. Not far from the motel was a sparse park, with a lone swing set and monkey bars. He'd beg Dean to take him there every day, and sometimes Dean actually would. When it was safe. For some reason, the memory of that place struck him with a pang now. He wanted to go there. He recreated the park in his mind's eye. His head started to hurt.

_"Hey, you can wake up now,"_ Dean's voice came again, no less hollow but definitely less upset.

The bed moved softly. Sam opened his eyes and turned his head. Jess was gone, he wasn't in his old apartment. He wasn't at the park, either. He allowed a small frown and squinted around the familiar motel room. Something felt off. He had no idea what. Dean had the phone receiver in his hand. Sam cleared his throat, and watched his brother jerk, then drop the phone.

"Good, you're awake," Dean said, relief evident even through Sam's hazy vision. "I couldn't get you up for a minute or two."

"Why'd you try?" Sam said. His head was muzzy, as if he'd been asleep for several days instead of several minutes. "I think I might have been getting somewhere."

"You had some kind of seizure." Dean ducked his head, but Sam saw a dark, haunted look in his eyes before he got a view of the top of Dean's head. "I figured it was better to err on the side of caution."

"Oh."

"Yeah. I was about to call for help. Drag your sorry ass to the hospital."

Dean was definitely worried. Sam felt a stab of regret. It couldn't be easy. He felt like shit and probably looked it, too, but even though he was the one living through it, he didn't envy Dean having to watch. Sam wouldn't like it either. He stared at his brother, wishing Dean would stop studying the floor. He took a deep breath, ended up coughing and wheezing.

"I don't need the hospital." He closed his eyes briefly, knowing the whole hacking up a lung thing didn't really back that statement up. His eyelids clicked when he peeled them back open. Dean hadn't moved. Sam frowned. "It worked, though. I dreamed about Jess. I knew it wasn't really happening."

Dean finally looked back up, a slow smile spreading across his face. Sam's feeling of unease grew exponentially with each tooth Dean revealed. There was no reason for a smile like that, the toothy grin filled not with relief so much as inappropriate mirth. Oh, shit. Sam struggled to get his elbows underneath him, managing only the right. He propped himself up shakily, and scooted up the bed until his shoulders rested against the headboard.

"That's good news, Sammy," Dean said. "I'll bet next time you swim laps around the bitch. I have complete confidence in you."

"Dude, I've told you a million times not to call me that." Sam tried to keep his voice light, but he was afraid it shook. His stomach was a tight bundle, full of unfounded nervousness. He tried to sit up, and failed at that as well. It took too much energy, left him panting for breath. "I think next time will be the last."

"Yeah, you think so, Sammy?"

Dean sounded almost excited. When Sam had gone to sleep, Dean had been worried. Now he was jovial. This was all wrong. Sam couldn't catch a breath; he only couldn't take in air very well in the dream. He was still in it. He thumped his head back hard, utterly wasted. This was the last.

"Only Dean gets away with calling me Sammy, and I hate it even when he does it," Sam said dully. He attempted to glare. Judging by the succubus' amused smile, he didn't do a very good job. "You don't really need anything. It can be as boring as hell, you just need me to dream."

"There was never any way you could beat me," it said, shrugging Dean's shoulders. "Believe it or not, you're not the first who's tried. Most people are endearingly clueless about my existence, but every once in a while I'm surprised. Those are the best kinds of meals. You've been very satisfying, _Sammy_."

"Well, I'd tell you I'm happy for you, but…" Sam frowned. "Why are you telling me all this?"

It shrugged again, then raised a hand and pointed in the air. It tilted its head slightly, as if waiting. Sam couldn't figure out what for, and couldn't stand to look at Dean's face being manipulated by this evil thing. There was no reason for the charade other than simple torture. It was probably just an extra boost to have its victims suffer nightmares instead of just dreams. The more anxiety he suffered, the more it probably took from him. That might explain why he always started with a normal dream and escalated to a terrible climactic nightmare, and why it was happening more often. It had exhausted him and was trying to get every last ounce out of him.

_"Are you sure?"_ Dean's voice. The real Dean, out there somewhere far away. Sam cringed at the desperation he heard in the tone, something Dean would never let him hear if he were awake. That just made it all the more painful. _"There's got to be something."_

"I've never been able to hear him before," Sam said, more to himself than his demonic bedside companion. He looked up, as if expecting to also see his brother, and then immediately felt like an idiot for following the succubus' cue. Dean wasn't up anywhere.

"Consider it a final gift. Most don't get this, either."

Lucky him, getting to listen to Dean sit at his deathbed. Lucky him for being _on_ his deathbed. This was nuts. Sam hadn't even fought yet, he wasn't going to lie here and die without a whimper while this thing sat there and leering at him, wearing his brother's face. He just didn't quite know how to fight, and he could only hope he had enough time to figure it out.


	14. Chapter 14

_Weaver, chapter 14_

He really was glad they'd pushed on to Salt Lake instead of stopping in one of the few tiny towns along the highway, but it hadn't made that much difference in the grand scheme. The doctors here couldn't really diagnose Sam any better than a small town guy could have, but he hoped the equipment there made up for that. The CPAP had worked for about six hours and then became useless. Sam was now on a full ventilator, and had shown no signs of life. Dean was counting on the ventilator keeping Sam with him for as long as possible. He needed time. Sam needed time. He had a terrible, sick feeling deep in his gut, the all-familiar panicky feeling that Sam was already gone.

"Excuse me, Mr. Schon?"

Dean looked up wearily. He'd been told, several times by several different doctors and nurses, to get some rest, and part of him knew that now Sam was hooked up to machines guaranteed to trigger alarms if he stopped breathing he should do that. He couldn't. He wouldn't. He blinked dumbly at the short man standing in the doorway. Doctor…Fitzpatrick, he thought. Dean had seen too many different people on the way up from the emergency room to be sure. He didn't really care.

"Yeah?"

"I've run every test I can think of. I'm afraid…there's not much more I can do."

"Are you sure?" Dean said automatically, though he'd already known that answer was coming. "There's got to be something."

"Even if there were…" The doctor shrugged and spread his hands. "I really am sorry. I honestly don't know what's wrong with him. I can't treat what I don't know. I can monitor the bruising of his ribs, of course. In a way, the rest will help heal those injuries…if he wakes up, he'll feel better."

Dean couldn't hear any more.

"Find another doctor."

"Sir."

"Find. Another. Doctor."

He was being a fool. Dean knew western medicine couldn't solve supernatural ailments no matter who the doctor was, but his insides clenched at the very thought of acknowledging that out loud, like doing so would somehow make Sam slip away from him faster. Doctor Fitzpatrick gave him an awkward, pitying look, opened his mouth like he was going to say something, and then silently retreated. Dean slouched back, dug out his cell phone and scrolled through his call lists, looking for anyone he hadn't already contacted multiple times. There had to be someone who knew someone who had once heard of this fucking thing and could help them. He felt like he was throwing Hail Mary passes and there was no one around to catch them.

The heart monitor Sam was hooked up to skipped a couple of beats. It wasn't the first time it had happened, and Dean knew it wouldn't be the last. His own heart, almost intuitively, picked up the slack and started to pound even faster during those times. Just as intuitively, he rose and moved closer to the bed, needing to be close. Sam's heart rate steadied after only a few seconds.

Dean wondered if his brother was fighting in there, somewhere where no one could see. Of course he was. Sam was nothing if not a stubborn son of a bitch. Dean drew the uncomfortable hospital chair closer and sat back down, leaned forward with elbows on the arms of the chair, hands clasped together. He bowed his head down and closed his eyes for a minute. Everything spun slightly in a way that evidenced a pretty urgent need for sleep. If Sam was in there fighting a damned intangible supernatural force, the very least he could do was fight exhaustion. He opened his eyes and leaned close to his brother's ear.

"You just hold on, Sammy," Dean said quietly. "I swear I'll think of something. All you gotta do is not die on me."

Shit, it _did_ suck to say that, and he thought he finally got what Sam had gone through with the whole Reaper thing. He could have gone forever without coming to that understanding in this particular way. Dean rubbed a hand across his forehead, down his face, and watched Sam's chest as it barely moved. He fought the urge to grab his brother by the shoulders and shake him again, an act he knew wouldn't do any more good than the damned doctors seemed to be doing. His gaze ended up on Sam's slack, pale face. Without the customary angst tensing his features, Sam looked even younger than he usually did.

"Sir?"

"What?" he snapped, turning to look at the nurse who'd just entered the room. She looked like she had years of experience dealing with people like him, and merely flinched a little. "What do you want?"

"It's time to change the sheets. You can stay if you like, it should only take a few minutes."

"Change the…"

He had to question the necessity of changing the bed's linens. It was a thought he let hang in the air after catching a resolute glimmer in the nurse's eye. There was probably some stupid hospital rule about it. Dean stood up slowly, shaking his head. He had a hard enough time seeing Sam lying surrounded by machines and poked full of holes; he didn't need to see a couple of nurses or orderlies shifting his brother around like a giant rag doll. Like he was already just a corpse.

"Whatever. I'll just go stretch my legs," Dean said, thumbing toward the door.

The nurse didn't respond, all business. Dean supposed there was only so much that could be said to the family of patients like Sam, the ones with one proverbial foot out the door as far as everyone was concerned. Damnit. He cleared his throat to get rid of a sudden constriction and tried to clear his head of shitty thoughts like that; neither action worked. He left the room and trolled around the stark hallway, not wanting to roam too far away from Sam's room. Stretching his muscles had been a good idea; somehow he'd got a little sore. Several hospital gown clad guys wheeling around IV stands gave him wary looks. He glanced down at himself, realizing the dirty jeans, scratched face, leather jacket look probably made him appear rough. Whatever. He glared at anyone who looked nervous, which of course only made them look more nervous.

He circled the hallway three times before the nurse and orderlies filed out of Sam's room, dirty linens in hand. Dean went back to the bedside, pulled the chair closer and resumed his vigil. He thought it might be a good idea to check out a library now that they were back in a bigger city, but the risk of something happening with Sam while he was off futilely looking at books and microfilm and computer screens was too great. Sam had done as thorough a job as ever researching, despite not having much access. If a book existed that contained the answer of how to kill a dream succubus, Dean was pretty sure it wasn't going to be in a library in Salt Lake City.

"I wish you could give me some kind of sign that you're in there fighting somewhere," Dean said quietly to his brother, giving voice to the thought that plagued him. The doctor had told him that while he didn't know what was wrong with Sam, he did know it wasn't a coma. Sam couldn't hear a thing he said. He had to try anyway. "I dunno, squeeze my hand or something."

He felt like one of those idiots on an after school special, but grabbed Sam's lax, IV-free left hand and waited to see if anything happened. Two things did – Sam's monitors suddenly went haywire with skipped heartbeats, lot of them until there weren't any heartbeats at all, and Dean's cell phone started ringing. Medical personnel streamed into the room, ohshititwasbad, and pushed him out of the way. He pulled the phone from his jacket, intent on silencing it. Caller ID read "Zelda R."

"Sam," he said.

"Sir, you can't use that in here."

Sam might be dying right in front of him and help might be a click of a button away. Dean fled to the corridor, turning to watch the mayhem surrounding Sam. He probably shouldn't use the phone out there either. His hand shook slightly as he hit talk and raised it to his ear anyway.

"Missouri?"

_"Dean,"_ came her airy, high-pitched voice. _"How's Sam doing?"_

"What, you can't tell?" he said, snappish.

_"Boy, I'm a thousand miles away, and you know it doesn't work like that."_ Missouri paused for a second. _"Oh, honey, he's not good."_

"Not at the moment, he's not. Hold on a second." Dean relaxed a little when the frenzy surrounding Sam abated. The nurse that had booted him out before left the room, scowling at his phone. He scowled back, but pointed to Sam and said, "What was that, is he okay?"

"He's fine now," she said. Her face softened slightly. Damn, if Ratched was going nice on him, Dean must look as scared spitless as he felt. "It's probably going to happen more frequently from now on, I'm sorry. And you really shouldn't be using the phone in this wing."

Dean nodded absently, noticing how the nurse hadn't really told him anything. He leaned against the wall, watched the rest of the nurses and the doctor – not Fitzpatrick, he noted – leave the room. He craned his neck around the doorframe and so he could keep an eye on Sam.

"Okay, I'm back. Please tell me you've got something I can work with." He'd strip to his damned skivvies, light candles and chant a crazy-ass ritual while dancing around Sam's bed right about now. "Anything."

_"I thought I did, but now I'm not so sure,"_ she said. Thank crap she didn't ask about Sam again. _"If he's in the hospital, it might have progressed too far for this to be of any use. Is he conscious?"_

"He's hooked up to a bunch of machines." They're keeping him alive, Dean thought, they're all that is. "He has a freaking tube down his throat. I don't think he's going to…no, he's not conscious."

_"That is bad."_ He heard paper rustling, the faint sibilance of Missouri breathing in his ear. She was right in sync with Sam's ventilator. God. _"But not hopeless."_

"You know how to kill the succubus, make it so it can't do this to anyone else?" Dean said.

_"It's no succubus, Dean. Weavers are almost always genderless, and when they're not, they're male. More like an incubus, if anything."_

"Weaver?"

_"Weavers manipulate dreams and feed off the energy of the dreamer the same way an incubus or succubus uses sex. Reports on them are very rare, probably only because most don't live to tell the tale. I had to do a lot of digging and talk to a lot of people to find any answers,"_ Missouri explained. Dean felt an inappropriate urge to laugh as that damned hippy 70s song played in his head, and Wayne and Garth danced around. He heard more rustling paper, shook his head to rid it of the tasteless humor. He and Sam had already figured out it fed off dreams. Except for the name, this wasn't news. _"It's likely that it had Sam for a lot longer than either of you could possibly know. With his abilities, even untapped as they are, it would have wanted to draw as much from your brother as possible before…you know."_

"Damn." Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. From the same information to unpleasant probabilities and none of it anything he wanted to hear. He didn't want to hear how Sam's freakiness was probably the biggest reason for this. "Damnit, he's had more visions since Lawrence. Not too long ago, actually."

_"That might have accelerated the Weaver's actions. Sam was wide open for this kind of attack. If it already had Sam while he was having visions, they could have given it such a rush it couldn't resist."_

Dean clenched his jaw so hard he thought he heard a molar crack. All that time Sam was having his energy leeched away and he hadn't said a word. Probably because of Dean's own inability to resist giving his little brother a hard time about his…skills instead of treating it with any sort of seriousness. He didn't know for sure what he would have said to Sam if he had known about the dreams, but he imagined it would have been worthless. He stared at Sam, hated the paleness of his face, the immobility. Dean's stomach hurt.

_"As long as Sam's still alive, there may be time to stop it. Is it safe to leave him for a little while? You're going to need a few things."_

**A/N: Almost there. I think…two chapters left. One would imagine I could get those done tonight, but raging migraine says one more second staring at the computer equals death and I'm too young to die. Thank you for your patience!**


	15. Chapter 15

_Weaver, chapter 15_

Sam would think twice about making fun of how fast Dean couldn't run again. His brother stayed with him stride for stride as they practically flew through the forest. Stopping by woods on a snowy evening had turned ugly faster than their hunts usually did; he hated when one supernatural sighting turned out to be something else entirely. Sam put his foot down wrong, ankle twisting slightly. He stumbled but managed to catch himself before he fell. Dean kept running, taking a very slight lead. Sam let him. Something told him it was getting closer, and he wanted his brother as safe as possible. The footsteps behind them were misleading, he knew. His sense of foreboding was from more than that. His breath came out in opaque puffs of mist, his lungs burned from the cold.

"You just hold on, Sammy. I swear I'll think of something," Dean said out of the blue. He sounded further away than the few steps he was. "All you have to do is not die on me."

"What?" Sam panted. His steps faltered, wondering if Dean knew something he didn't. "What are you talking about?"

"I didn't say anything. Less talking, more running. We're almost there."

Sam picked up his pace again, but he was filled with confusion and sudden fear and he had no idea why. Well, not no idea. Grey Men were infamous for fucking with a person's emotions. He tried to shake off the feelings. It worked to some extent, but they still seemed to chase him just like the footsteps. He saw the rise leading up to the road, but it seemed like a long way away. The trees were thick, branches heavy with snow. His lungs started hurting more, as if the air had become even colder than it had been only moments ago. Part of him thought maybe he hadn't recovered fully from the thing with the dream succubus, but he knew he couldn't voice that concern to Dean; Sam had insisted he was fine for this hunt.

Dean scurried up the rise, turning around with his weapon raised, like that would do any good. Sam didn't know how his brother had got so far ahead of him. He was still at least twenty feet from the incline. He watched as an indistinct dark blur descended, cutting off his view of Dean. Shit. The footsteps behind him drew closer. A loud crunching noise filled the air, sounded like a giant cat munching on bones. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, a chill run down his spine. His foot slipped, and this time he couldn't catch himself. He went down on one knee. Pain rocketed up, rattled his teeth.

"Go," he said. Dean had to get to the relative safety of the car. "I'm fine, go!"

"I wish you could give me some kind of sign that you're in there fighting somewhere," Dean called, voice again strangely faint.

_In where?_, Sam thought hazily. He'd bitten his tongue. He ignored the pain and scrambled back to his feet. The dark shape hiding his brother from view was somehow bigger and darker now, some insidious black fog.

"Dean?"

He was so damned scared Dean had actually left him. Sam clambered up the slope, slipping and sliding. He didn't remember it being this steep when they'd gone down it before, didn't remember the snow being this deep and cumbersome. An icy gust of air enveloped him, brushing against his skin like a cold, damp hand. He almost threw up from the abject terror that sensation caused, and again tried to tell himself it was all in his head. He grunted, losing his footing again. What the hell was wrong with him? Sam continued up using both hands and feet, half-crawling until he reached the gravelly shoulder of the road. He could barely breathe. Darkness filled his vision. He was trapped in the fog, unable to move.

"I dunno, squeeze my hand or something," came Dean's voice through the solid-looking wall.

"What?" Sam rolled on his side. His whole body shook so hard from the effort that he thought he might fly apart. There was definitely something wrong with him, and up this close he should be able to see Dean.

"Sam!"

The darkness turned into more than grey fog, coming from his insides. His vision faded out as his lungs decided not to work at all, and Sam was sure he was dying. He couldn't let that happen Dean where was Dean? And then just like that there was a hand in front of his face, cutting through the shadowy blur. He recognized Dean's ring and instinctively reached up. Dean grabbed onto him and pulled hard, got him off his side and manhandled him upright. Sam sagged against his brother slightly, relieved that he was able to see him at last. He was going to be okay. Dean had sworn nothing would happen to Sam while he was around. Like so many promises Dean had made in his lifetime, Sam knew this one was going to be kept.

"Come on."

The words were said right in Sam's ear, an arm around his shoulder as Dean steered him toward and into the car. He felt warmer the second his ass hit the leather upholstery, though he knew the seat was actually uncomfortably cold. Sam shivered despite the warmth, or maybe because of it. Dean slid behind the wheel and started the car. As suddenly as it had begun, everything supernatural stopped. Sam no longer heard footsteps or bone crunching or the pervading fear. He relaxed into the seat, however, feeling completely wasted.

"Go? I'm fine?" Dean said, tone not exactly hostile but most definitely unhappy. He pulled the car onto the road. "You think I'd just leave you behind? Think again."

Sam blinked a couple times. Of the two of them, it was him who should be questioning the crazy things his brother had said out there.

"Dean…"

"Seriously, Sam, if I had kept on going, you'd have had a freaking heart attack or stroke or something."

"I was right behind you," he said and glanced at Dean.

"Shit." Dean clenched his jaw twice in a row. Sam thought he could gauge his brother's anger index just based on the number of times his jaw muscle worked spasmodically. "Sorry, I just…that thing was messing with my head. From where I stood you were at death's door."

"Déjà vu, huh?"

Sam was tired of things messing with his head. First it was the Black Dogs, and then the dream succubus. Actually, the succubus had probably come first, and his dreams about Max Miller's family even before that. Yeah, he was _damn_ tired of things messing with his head. After they regrouped and came back to take care of the Grey Man, Sam hoped they found a case that was more related to finding their dad. Or maybe deal with a rogue band of wood nymphs. Something easy and less psychically involved.

"I'm getting a little tired of always running. If it's not us chasing after something, it's something chasing after us."

"It's the job, Sam. Think of it as a workout."

"Yeah. Workout. I'm serious, man, don't you ever get sick of it?"

"Nope."

"Not ever?"

"Not when I think about all the people we help, Sammy," Dean said.

"So, when we were in Vegas you were just pretending you wanted to gamble and objectify women as a vacation from our job," Sam said. Dean flashed him a grin and he could tell by the look in his brother's eye that something raunchy was going to come out of his mouth. "Never mind. So that was a Grey Man, not a sasquatch."

"Damned reports didn't mention anything other than a dark, looming creature lurking in the woods and the 'unrelated' disappearances of a couple of locals." Dean reached over and turned up the heat. "There wasn't anything about that high-pitched humming or the mindfucking."

"Humming? I heard crunching. And maybe the only people who experienced that are the ones who disappeared." Sam shivered. The heat was on, but that didn't help with the cool trickle of air leaking through the window. He hadn't really thought there'd still be snow up here, but apparently it had been a great year for it. Now that he wasn't running through it, it was pretty. White and clean even though the sky was dim blue with dusk. "Nobody knows. This is a hotbed for Bigfoot sightings."

"Near it, anyway. I think the hotbed is Canada, eh?"

"This _looks_ like Canada," Sam said. "Damn, it's cold. How exactly do we beat a Grey Man?"

"First we need earplugs."

"Dean, I'm serious."

"So am I. We have to block out the crazy sounds," Dean said. "Or we'll go nuts. Sun's too low, though. We'll wait until morning."

Broad daylight wasn't their typical hunting time, but Sam couldn't disagree. Dusk and dark hours would only increase a Grey Man's psychological hold on them, which might be a reason none of the news stories had mentioned any of the local population's tendency for fear and panic. Sam flexed his fingers. They were stiff with cold. He stuck them in front of the vent, but the air coming out of it was lukewarm at best. He shivered and reached out to slide the heat gauge up. Dean darted out a hand quickly and stopped him.

"Anh. It's warm enough."

So driver got to control the music and the heat. Sam realized he wasn't really that cold anymore, though and didn't say anything. Dean's hand was cold as ice, contradicting his claim that it was warm. Sam frowned, fixing his eyes on a spot through the driver's side window. They were already at town limits, despite the poor road conditions. He started to get an uneasy feeling in his gut. He watched Dean watch the road.

"I don't know if you can hear me or not," Dean said. "I hope you can. She said this would help you pick up my voice, somehow. Whatever. I can't do anything if you're not hearng me. Everything's going to be fine, Sammy."

Only Dean's mouth didn't move, and the words sounded like they were coming from an old phonograph or something. That feeling in his gut moved up to his chest, then his throat. The way he figured it, he was either going nuts or it was something even worse.

"According to Missouri, this should help give you strength. God, I hope so, Sammy, because if it doesn't…shit. No. I can't get touchy-feely. You just have to wake up. If you wake up, I promise the next time you get all girly I won't make fun of you. Listen to me. I'm wasting time."

Dean…no, maybe not Dean…looked over at him. For a second, he swore his brother's eyes were black and Sam then knew. He remembered what something worse was and now he thought going nuts was really preferable. In a flash, Not Dean just looked like Dean again, and Sam remembered a motel room. He could smell it. He could feel it. Not Dean clenched his jaw, and got a suspicious expression on his face. It was a succubus, Sam remembered now, and he couldn't know that he knew, and apparently it couldn't hear Dean. He couldn't be sure _he_ was really hearing Dean.

"You all right, Sam?" Not Dean said. "You look a little funny."

"Just leftover effects from the Grey Man, I guess. It was pretty intense."

"Yeah, it's never fun when something evil gets in your head and messes with you."

Sam held his breath, couldn't make himself respond for fear of giving himself away. It sounded like something his real brother would say, but it also sounded very Not Dean-like. He didn't know what he was supposed to do. He needed Dean to tell him, but Dean had gone silent. Actually, that might not be so bad until they got into a better place. Sam wasn't sure he could maintain a normal façade if he had Dean talking to him while Not Dean stared at him in the close confines of the car. Now that he knew he was dreaming, he tried to change the location.

"Yeah," Sam said. "Not fun."

It didn't work. This thing next to him was probably controlling everything that was happening, and feeding off it as well. He didn't know how he had anything left for it to consume. Knowledge of his situation seemed to make him aware that he felt like absolute crap. He didn't know how he had run, even dreaming, full out; his muscles felt like jelly.

"Well, it'll be over soon," Not Dean said cheerfully.

"Like I said before, Missouri says this should make you stronger," Dean said. Sam's head already hurt from the strangeness of the situation. He smiled at Not Dean awkwardly and listened to Dean cautiously. "I don't know what's going on in your dream. Probably something pretty shitty. So this isn't going to be easy, especially if the Weaver still looks like Jessica. No matter what it looks like, though, you have to fight it in there just like we'd fight it if it were out here. You have to kill it, Sam. It doesn't matter how. No magic bullets, no special tool."

Okay, well that was something. He hoped that stronger thing of Missouri's would hit soon. He closed his eyes in an extended blink, opened them again to find himself in a children's park. He wrinkled his nose, confused. Not Dean was on the monkey bars, hanging upside down with a grin on its face that looked macabre and intensity in its eyes. It didn't take Sam long to understand. He thought it was trying to determine if he'd figured out he was dreaming. He pretended they hadn't just been in the snow-capped mountains of Snoqualmie, Washington, that they'd been in this town with a name he couldn't remember but a park he remembered well, and fondly. He pretended he wasn't bothered by the fact it had somehow known he'd thought about this place before.

"Dean, come on, quit screwing around," Sam said, infusing as much nonchalance in the words as he could.

"Come on, Sammy, you used to love this kind of thing as a kid."

"We're not kids anymore. We've got more important stuff to do."

"Oh, do we?" Not Dean said. Shit. It definitely knew that he knew this was all wrong. It flipped off the monkey bars and walked over to him, eyes narrowed. "You're probably right."

"You should be feeling it now," Dean said. "Sammy, you have to hurry. I don't think I'll be able to keep this hoodoo shit up for long."

Sam almost laughed, imagining Dean using Missouri's more holistic approach to demon fighting. All at once he felt a rush of warmth go through him, and smelled cinnamon. No, it was cloves. Saffron? Something at once sweet and spicy and earthy, and there was also an underlying scent of molten wax. Maybe it was slightly more embarrassing to rely on the less tangible kind of weapon, but Sam had to admit he thought it was working. It had to work enough for him to accomplish his task. The warm feeling quickly turned into more than that, and it was as if he had been infused with energy. It wasn't much, but it was more than he had.

"God, I wish I could help you somehow. I don't think you'll be able to last for much longer." Dean made a small, choked throat-clearing sound, which was painful even though Sam didn't have the visual to go with it. "You, ah, you're not looking too shit-hot right now, little brother."

Sam lost the urge to laugh. If anything, though, Dean's uncharacteristic monologuing only made the energy build in him more. Dream adrenaline, he supposed. Not Dean stared at him, up close now, and though Sam knew it wasn't really his brother he was struck with a panicky feeling that he couldn't fight this thing because of its outward appearance.

"We do have more important stuff to do," Not Dean said with a flippant smile. "And I can see it's not going to be easy."

Its eyes turned black and though it still bore Dean's face, the change was enough to make Sam's hesitation fade. He didn't have to feign obliviousness anymore. He could do this. He could. Sam curled his left hand into a fist, dreamed he had a dagger in his right. He looked down to make sure it had happened, feeling shaky and scared and powerful. It was there. Sam brought his hand up quickly, arcing the blade toward Not Dean's midsection. The dagger disappeared before it breached skin.

"I told you it wasn't going to be easy, Sammy." Not Dean pressed himself into Sam's space, and Sam found he couldn't move away. "It could have been. See? I was letting you go out on a swing. Literally."

"Not quite how I intend on dying," Sam said. "Actually, I have no intention of dying at all."

"Good luck with that," Not Dean told him, smiling.

Black eyes turned back to hazel green. Sam took a deep breath, or tried to. Already the symptoms started showing. Some part of him retained an invigorated energy, though, and he swore he heard Dean speaking to him again, but the voice was too far away for him to be absolutely certain. Whatever Dean was doing or had done was keeping him going, that was all that mattered. Sam shoved Not Dean away from him, and made a gun appear in his right hand. He managed one shot before the succubus made it disappear. Real pain appeared in Not Dean's eyes. Sam was glad he'd hit a mark, even if it wasn't fatal, and yet those eyes. He looked at the succubus' shoulder, kept his gaze there.

"Sammy, what are you doing?"

"Don't call me that."

Sam re-dreamed the handgun, shot again and missed. Everything shifted and wavered in a very unpleasant way. He gasped shallowly, never getting quite enough oxygen. The world did several loops, jarred abruptly when he fell to his knees, with his free hand clutching at his chest like that would make him catch a solid breath. Not Dean towered over him.

"Shit, Sam. _Sammy_," Dean said, voice now clear and strong. Terrified. Angry. "Fight it, goddamnit." Then further away, not to him, "Can I get some damned help in here, please?"

Not Dean laughed and leaned down until its face was right in front of Sam's. He couldn't not look into its eyes. Sam shook all over. Dean had been right; his strength hadn't lasted long. Sam could barely see, barely feel anything, which he supposed was probably a good thing. But in its gloating arrogance, the Weaver had forgotten Sam still had the gun. Dean had told him to fight. Sam lifted the gun shakily and fired, point blank, nearly vomiting when the thing wearing Dean's face stopped laughing to stare at him in shock.

"You can't…" it said, and fell.

"Not easy, huh?" Sam said weakly.

And then _he_ fell and fell until he was surrounded by intense white. Softness underneath him, and mechanical noise all around him. Sam tried to draw a breath and there was only confusion and choking and help, help. A face above his, familiar but wrong. Dean, tired and worried and oh, hell, that look in his eyes…it really was his brother. Sam was so happy to see him. He tried to focus, couldn't. Tried to sit up, couldn't. He couldn't breathe around the massive, painful object in his throat.

"Hey," Dean said. "You're okay. You're going to be okay. You have to calm down."

Sam did the next best thing. He passed out.


	16. Chapter 16

_Weaver, chapter 16_

For a second, it looked like Sam was trying to center on him amid the panicked choking, and then he just went limp. Dean reached for his brother, but the help he'd called for arrived and jostled him out of the way. Doctor Fitzpatrick was still on duty and had apparently ignored Dean's request for a new doctor. Nurse Ratched was also still around. She looked at the candles and incense, the markings on the floor, and gave him the evil eye. Dean didn't care. He looked away from her and pinned his gaze on Sam, who looked even more still among the almost choreographed movements surrounding him. Dean felt ready to crawl out of his skin. He just needed Sam to move, to give some sign of life. A finger twitch would be enough.

He got nothing. Dean shifted back and forth between feet, looking away from the activity. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. It wasn't supposed to happen at all. He'd made a promise, to himself and to Sam, that nothing would happen to his brother while he was around. He was failing. He hadn't even been able to actively help, and who knew what Missouri's hoodoo had done, if it had done anything at all. Ratched looked over at him, then abandoned her post.

"That," she said, indicating mess on the floor; she looked irritated, "Is all against hospital rules."

"It's a religious thing," Dean said, really not giving a damn what the hospital rules were at the moment.

She narrowed her eyes and looked more closely at him, to the point Dean started to become uncomfortable with the attention. He darted his eyes back to Sam, whose face looked about the same color as the sheets beneath him and whose entire body remained limp and…dead. Dean swallowed hard and looked back to the nurse.

"Look, I'm sorry. But what about _Sam_?"

"Oh…" Ratched appeared embarrassed, only a slightly better look than pissed off. "He's okay. Better than okay, actually. He's fine."

"Fine?"

"We can't be sure until we run more tests, but it appears as though Sam's breathing and ox sats have returned almost to normal," Doctor Fitzpatrick said as he joined them. He looked completely flummoxed. "The confusion and excitement of waking up with a breathing tube down his throat probably resulted in him passing out, but as far as I can tell he's just sleeping. If there are any long term effects from his…ailment, we won't know what they are until he wakes up."

"He's fine," Dean said stupidly. The information swirled around in his head, getting lost amid the million different emotions he was feeling. "You're telling me he's really okay."

"Unless he shows differently when he regains consciousness, as I said. I didn't understand what was wrong with him in the first place, and I don't understand this." The doctor still sounded dazed, which only made Dean truly believe he was a quack. And that said a lot, coming from a guy who'd just used spices and invocations to help save his brother. It had worked. He felt shaky. "If I believed in them, I'd say his recovery was some kind of miracle."

Dean could say the same thing. Fitzpatrick returned to Sam's bedside and fiddled around with the chart, and then the machines still hooked up to Sam. Dean couldn't quite trust his legs to move yet, so he watched the nurses bustle and clean around Sam's bed from where he was. Ratched scowled down at the extinguished candles again. One of them had tipped over while the wax was still melted, and there was a hardened puddle on the floor. It almost looked like the candle had suffered a fatal wound and had bled out all over the floor. He laughed, though he didn't know why because it wasn't really funny at all. Ratched shot him another look, this one worried. He stopped laughing.

It took hours, it seemed, for the nurses to finally leave the room, Ratched imparting orders to never light candles around oxygen tanks ever again. It took hours after that for Dean to convince himself Sam really was sleeping without a demon chasing after his dreams and his breath. More hours still before he finally allowed himself to crash, sprawled on the damned uncomfortable hospital chair next to Sam's bed. And when he crashed, he crashed hard. The last thing he remembered was thinking it was embarrassing to fall asleep with his hand on Sam's forearm and the first thing he was aware of after waking again was that his hand was no longer on Sam's forearm.

He peeled his eyes open and tried to move. Tried being the operative word. He had no idea how long he'd been out, but there was a blanket on top of him and every muscle and joint felt out of whack. Dean fumbled his hand around, re-seeking his brother before he raised his head and went for a visual.

"Hey," Sam said. Croaked, really. Whatever. Sam was awake and gazing at him with a mildly amused expression on his still too pale face. "You're awake."

"So are you," Dean said. He sat up the rest of the way. He couldn't settle on relief or happiness as an emotion, knew he probably looked like an idiot. He followed that up with words. "And you're okay."

Fuck. That had somehow come out all chick-flicky, and Sam's expression morphed to show he recognized that. Dean shrugged it off, inwardly cringing at the unpleasant pull of his muscles. It was good to see his brother awake and looking almost normal again. It hadn't been that long, but it had been too long. He glanced down. The candles were gone, the floor clean. He frowned.

"It worked," Sam said, voice not improving with time. "Whatever you did."

"It was Missouri who saved your bacon, really, and luck. She's the one who figured out what it was. For the record, it wasn't a succubus. Actually, Missouri said it was a dream weaver. More like an incubus. Kinky." Dean shrugged again, like he could make Sam somehow forget that moment of genuine emotion he'd left surface. He would never let on just how hopeless he'd felt after Sam's admission into the hospital. He probably didn't have to. Sam kept _looking_ at him. Dean looked at his watch. He'd been out for hours. "Oh, shit, I told her I'd call her."

Sam chuckled, which ended up in a fit of coughing. Dean leaned forward. Sam lifted a hand and waved him off weakly, regaining his breath with a ragged sigh. He didn't like the sign of weakness. He stood up and circled around the bed, as much to stretch his muscles as anything. He noted a small plastic pail on the small, moveable table attached to the side rails of the bed. He moved over, peering into it. Ice chips. He handed them to Sam, who took them with a shaky hand and popped a couple into his mouth.

"Face it, Dean, you'll never get on her good side now."

"Yeah. She can wait a little longer." Dean messed around with Sam's chart, trying to fill in the gaps his impromptu nap had created. It was all Greek to him. Apparently doctors and nurses all failed penmanship. "You really are all right, though, Sammy?"

"I feel…okay. Been better," Sam said cautiously. Dean looked up. Sam wasn't _looking_ at him anymore, instead staring at the wall with a far off expression on his face. "Tell me what happened."

"Not much to tell on my end," Dean said, uncomfortable with discussing it in their present location and with the tone of Sam's voice. "You wouldn't wake up. The doctors here are morons. Missouri called and gave me something she thought might help. Herbs and incantations, can you believe that shit? Anyway, I'm more interested to know how you beat the thing."

"Actually, I'm not sure."

"Sam?"

"I don't remember much, only bits and pieces."

Sam swallowed a couple times, closed his eyes. Dean frowned. He pivoted toward the door slightly, ready to go holler for help if he had to. Sam's brain seemed to be functioning just fine, but that didn't mean there was nothing wrong with him at all; he looked like crap. Then again, Dean had always suspected hospital gowns were designed to make sick people appear even sicker. Dean pursed his lips. He didn't like that thought, and he didn't like that Sam didn't have much recollection. He held off calling for help. It wasn't like the staff was happy with him, what with the whole open flame/oxygen tank thing.

"But it's dead, right?" Dean said. "You must have killed it, or you wouldn't be awake."

His brother opened his eyes and just stared for a moment. Dean swore Sam's face became even whiter, and the look in his eyes…it wasn't good. The sheer gladness he felt to have Sam back in the land of the living was quickly becoming marred by unease. Sam's general bad color and weakness were bad enough to witness, but there was something more. He knew it.

"Yeah," Sam said quietly at last, and with a quick smile that did nothing to alleviate the look in his eyes. "Of course."

That was Sam's "this kid is not all right but doesn't want to talk about it" brush-off. Dean would recognize it from a mile away. Under any other circumstances, he'd be cool with that. Considering this was the first conversation he'd had with his brother in nearly…shit, how many days was it?…he was far on the other side of the spectrum from cool. He glanced toward the door again, and found the hallway frustratingly void of people. When he looked back Sam darted his gaze away, fixed his attention on the wall again.

"Sam, what's wrong?"

"Nothing." There was that fake, nervous smile again. Sam didn't even bother to direct it at him. "Why would you even ask that?"

"Gee, let me think. Probably has something to do with you being nearly dead for a couple days and because you're acting weird now."

"I've been nearly dead for a couple days, I think I'm entitled to some weird time, Dean."

Dean sighed. He walked back to the side of the bed and sank down onto the chair, putting himself directly in Sam's line of sight. He wasn't surprised when his brother changed his focus to the natty hospital blanket covering his legs. Disappointed, but not surprised.

"Hey," he said. "Tell me what's going on in that head of yours."

"I…" Sam's voice was still gravelly, but it was thick now as well. He darted a glance up, then away again. "Nothing."

That was when Dean finally figured it out. He felt like an idiot for not even considering it until now. It was pretty clear it had been on Sam's mind since the moment he woke up.

"You really are awake, you know."

Sam started breathing faster and he picked at the blanket. Dean leaned forward, tempted to grab his brother's fidgety hands and stop him from tearing the blanket apart. Something told him that wouldn't be a very good move, so he watched and waited. It didn't take a genius to figure out the Weaver had taken on his form in Sam's dream. Anything he did now he had to do carefully.

"You've said that before," Sam blurted at last. "I don't know. I don't know if that's true, or if this place is real or if you're you."

Shit.

"You killed it, Sammy. I'm me," Dean said. His mind raced with ways he could possibly make Sam believe that. He stood up again and leaned closer. "Feel me. I'm solid."

Sam's nostrils flared, and he still wouldn't look up. Dean couldn't take it anymore. He took matters into his own hands, or arms as it were. He grabbed Sam by one shoulder, used his other hand to turn his brother's face toward him.

"Look me in the eye and try to tell me I'm not me."

He watched Sam go through a multitude of emotions, thought he was getting a mere peep at what the Weaver had done to Sam in his dreamscapes. That damned thing had better be dead. If it wasn't, Dean was going to find a way to make it dead, preferably a messy, bloody, satisfying way. He relaxed slightly as Sam finally settled on relief.

"Dean," Sam said softly.

"Yeah."

"It's really you. I'm awake." Aw, shit, Sam was doing that teary-eyed thing now. His kid brother had quite the array of weapons in his expression arsenal. Dean averted his eyes slightly, looked at Sam's cheekbone. "I should have known. You look like ass, and you smell like crap. I'd never dream that."

"Hey," Dean said, indignant but relieved in his own right. He let go of Sam's shoulder, cuffed his brother lightly on the jaw before he sat back in the chair. "Watch it."

"Seriously, dude. You should see yourself."

"Well, it's not like I've had a bunch of nurses come around, strip me and give me sponge baths like you've had." Dean smiled beatifically. "I don't know, Sammy, but I think three times a day is a bit excessive. One of them was a bit handsy, too."

"Sponge baths?" Sam squeaked.

"Oh, yeah."

"Uhm, Dean? You know I think I feel okay to leave. Something tells me they're going to be curious about my quick recovery around here and start asking questions we can't answer. We should go."

Dean couldn't help it. The more Sam babbled, the more his smile turned into a grin. He shook his head.

"Dream on, Sammy," Dean said, enjoying the open-mouthed, dismayed look on Sam's face. "Dream on."

The end!

**A/N: That's it, that's all she wrote. Part of me kind of wants the guys to go to Snoqualmie for real...maybe I should do that, since my muse is not cooperating at all in the Winchesters' current venture. Thanks to all for putting up with me figuring this place out:) **

**sbgrrl**


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